Losing My Religion
by bite-or-avoid
Summary: He thinks of how careless they were, he and Bones, bartering for time by living in limbo. - B/B
1. That's Me In The Corner

**Title: (That's Me In The Corner) Losing My Religion (Part 1/4?)**  
**Disclaimer**: Not mine  
**Spoilers**: Through the Season 5 finale. Since I started this back in May, anything that coincides with Season 6 spoilers is purely me being psychic :P And, to be honest, the premiere will most likely turn this into AU anyway.

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* * *

**

They never make their meeting at the coffee cart.

He walks the length of the Mall alone, getting reacquainted with what he's given the last year fighting for. Stops to pay his respects at the Korean War Memorial. He stares at the casualties of war made immortal in letters on granite and thinks about Pops; he'll have to bring him here, soon, because there's so little time left. The glint of silver in the sunlight proclaims "Freedom Is Not Free", and no one knows this better than Booth. He's paid its price; would pay it again, a thousand times over if he had to.

But how he wishes he hadn't had to.

He strolls alongside the reflecting pool. A light breeze ripples the surface of the water, distorting his image, but it doesn't matter. It's been a long time since he recognized himself anyway. He wonders if she'll have a hard time recognizing him, too.

Their bench sits empty in the midday sun. He smiles at the memory of her lips against his skin, even her adamant denial at kissing his hand somehow laced with intimacy. And he can almost hear her voice.

_We'll hold. We're the center. _

He'll never forget the unexpected jolt at hearing her refer to them as parts of a whole. No lecture on how _we're all a single functional entity on our own. _Just a simple acceptance of his claim to them as a unit that should never be divided.

But it had been. The center broken from the inside and the pieces it anchored scattered to the four winds. If anything can be salvaged now, it'll start here.

Still, after everything that's happened, he doesn't expect to see her today.

* * *

A lot can happen in a year.

He breathes in the arid air, squints up against the merciless sun, wipes the sweat off his brow. He feels raw, savage. Bones would tell him that it's _anthropologically inevitable, Booth, that an alpha-male such as yourself would adapt to his surroundings in this fashion_.

He doesn't want to adapt. What's more, he doesn't want to be one of her anthropological inevitabilities.

But he is. The sand and the mountains and the blood are embedded within him, like metaphorical marks on the heart, or etches in the bone.

He thinks of how careless they were, he and Bones, bartering for time by living in limbo. Thinking they were protecting each other _from _each other. Like tip-toeing around the freaking brontosaurus in the room would keep them safe somehow. He gets now that if he hadn't pushed the issue, Bones would have been content to forever reside in that realm of unexplored possibility between them, if it only meant that she wouldn't lose him. And he probably would have let her. But it all blew up in their faces anyway, and there's a kind of karmic justice to that. Talking about a whole damn year like it was nothing; like a second couldn't mean the difference between life and death. With all that this world had taught them both, how could they have ever taken any moment for granted?

He shakes his head to clear it and counts the days until _home_. Until a little boy who couldn't possibly understand what he was asking his father to do is back in his arms. Until good old American beer and a burger that doesn't taste like rubber and a Flyers game on the tube. Until the faces of the dead stare up at him from the sure strokes of Angela's pencils, and not from beneath his own hands. He counts the days until a reflecting pool and a coffee cart, and it sustains him. But the truth is he doesn't know if he should be counting forwards or backwards; if each new day is bringing them closer together or farther apart.

He thinks, in moments of ridiculous optimism, that the time away will be for the better. A new beginning, for both of them. But then he remembers how she'd looked at him with those unfathomable eyes, fear and vulnerability bleeding out around the lines they've drawn themselves into, and a much different thought is the one that takes hold. This is, very possibly, the end of _them_.

So he breathes in, breathes out, sheds the tender skin of _partnerfatherbrotherfriend_. It slips off easier than he expected; faster than it took to conceal himself inside it in the first place. He's spent all this time atoning for what he thought was another life. Being back isn't doing him any favors with the big man upstairs. Then again, maybe Sweets had been right after all about that deep reservoir of rage of his. Because in the time it takes for the earth to make a full revolution around the sun, he remembers one very important thing about himself.

Underneath it all, he's still made to kill.

* * *

He tells them no, at first. No matter what's going on between him and Bones, he can't just pick up and leave. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to leave his job, his kid, or his partner, no matter how badly he feels the urge to get away from her. Whatever sad excuse for a life he's been living these past couple of months, it's still _his_ life to do with as he pleases. He won't just hand that over to the military again. Not after how long he's been trying to make up for the last time.

It's that day in the park that changes his mind. When she broaches the thing with the Makapoopoo (he knows it's _Maluku. _He just doesn't wear passive aggressive well.) islands with that question in her voice. Like she's asking his permission for crying out loud, when he already knows damn well what she's decided. So, he promptly takes a lesson from Parker and informs her that he's taking the job in Afghanistan. _So there_, and he figures that he might as well have stuck out his tongue for good measure if he's going to be that childish about the knee-jerk response though, there's this inevitability to it. A truth that he hasn't been able to admit until now. Everything he's done against his own survival instincts—barrelling on like nothing ever happened between them, staying close when all he wants is to pull away—has been for her. Because she asked him to and he would do anything for her. He would.

And it's killing him.

As long as she's there—close enough to touch, too far to ever reach—he's stuck on instant replay. In this city, where every place he frequents is _theirs_. In this job, where he's forgotten how to work without her as a partner. In this life, within which she is completely entangled. To get past this, to really get past this and not let it wreck them down the line, he needs a complete change of scenery.

So, for once, they're in complete agreement. They need this. To find themselves, to find each other again. This is for the best. Because things have to change. They _have_ to. And it's all crystal clear for about a minute, until there's a clench in his gut, like nausea. _Indigestion_, Bones would say. But he knows better. Knows it's really his body's rebellion against this decision he wishes he didn't have to make. Still, he can't unmake it. Not after _you're the one that needs protecting_. Not after _I have to move on_, but not really being able to with any honest effort behind it. Not after holding her close and giving her the prom she's never had. Not after knowing her in all the ways you _can _know someone, all the ways you want to know someone when you've always been aware of what they can be (are) to you, and still not have it be enough.

He can't do this. Can't ask her to stay, can't be left behind.

He can't stay where she isn't.

Later, when he stares at his own signature just above the official seal, the hand that performed the familiar motions hangs heavy. Of the millions of documents he's signed in his lifetime, this one feels somehow… final. Undoable. Like he's just broken a promise he's been making every day for the last five years.

* * *

Most of the time, it isn't half bad. He's honored to be serving his country, to be furthering the cause of freedom. He wishes the world could be as black and white as Parker saw it that day in the car, but he's used to making tough choices. Used to the concept of killing one to save a thousand more.

So, he teaches them all about wind trajectories and harsh field conditions; tracking and detaining and interrogating. Teaches them about making that kill shot from fifteen hundred feet. About tempering knowledge with instinct to find the balance that keeps you alive. The kids look at him with awe and respect and a little jealousy, and it makes him feel proud.

And old.

He studies their fresh young faces—eager to please, eager to prove themselves, eager to kill—and doesn't _want_ to be who they look up to. Doesn't want to be responsible for their lives and deaths, for the cosmic balance sheets those who survive will carry. And the better they are, the harder they work, the more they impress him, the more he doesn't even want to know their names. Because in each satisfied smirk he sees a Teddy Parker; in each brilliant idea, a Zack Addy.

He honestly doesn't know which one he failed worse.

That's the part that really gets him where he lives. Because, of all the issues already plaguing his mind, the absurdity of this one takes the freaking cake. He flips the old harmonica in his hand like that last uncashed poker chip; like the remnant of a past life that still tugs at his heart. It's crazy, how he thinks more about it now than he ever has before. He thinks about the young genius that logic failed so completely. Wonders if the kid only told him about Iraq because he wanted to be stopped. To be told _Don't go. You'll never be the same_.

Wonders if the fact that he didn't talk Zack out of it when given the chance is the reason Bones still blames herself for a failure that was all his.

* * *

He's still mourning having to clean out his office when he finds her cleaning out hers. She moves with practiced ease around the room—stacking books, wrapping artifacts in pieces of newspaper—as Booth watches from the doorway. There has been a fog of melancholy settling over him ever since that day in the park, and in this moment the full weight of it is stifling. Brennan must feel it too, because she stops suddenly, a look of consternation crossing her face. It's that expression he's often thought of as her being lost in the tangle of her own genius. It makes his heart ache that he may never see it again.

He clears his throat, mostly to pull himself out of the funk. But her gaze snaps to him suddenly, and in her eyes he sees a reflection of his own fears.

"Whatchya thinkin'about so hard over there, Bones?" His voice carries a levity he hasn't felt in a long time.

"Oh, just attempting to determine the most efficient way of packing the rest of my things. What are you doing here?"

"Had to pack up my office too. Came to commiserate."

He plops himself on her couch with a dramatic flourish, and she grants him a small smile.

"Yes, it must have been very difficult for you. Rearranging all those files in such a way that Agent Perotta will be able to make some sense of them…"

"Hey, I had a system!"

"Saying _I know exactly where that is_, and then digging through all the piles on your desk does not qualify as a system, Booth."

He opens his mouth for a witty response, then closes it again. A heavy silence falls between them with the sudden reminder that there was _before_, and this is _after._ They are not this comfortable with each other anymore. Brennan lowers her eyes to the book in her hands.

"It's strange." She sounds uncertain, and he knows she was going over more than packing lists in her head. "This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Yet it seems… less satisfying than I imagined, somehow."

Booth suspects he doesn't need to remind her of what she's leaving behind. If she doesn't get it by now, it's too late anyway.

"Bones, you're going to be stuck on an island for a whole year with _Daisy_. Anyone in their right mind would be less than satisfied by that."

Brennan's brow furrows. If it's in offense on Daisy's behalf or confusion at his sudden derailing of a serious- conversation opener, he can't be sure.

"Miss Wick, although at times overly enthusiastic, is extremely competent."

"So, what's the problem? Afraid one day you'll snap and smother her in her tent?"

"I must admit that I have imagined forcibly silencing her on more than one occasion. But that's not it. It just…"

He stands up, taking a step towards her.

"_It just_ what, Bones?"

"It just… feels wrong in a way I can't quantify."

The action is fleeting; subconscious to the point that he doubts she even registers having done it. But he's devoted so much time to studying people, to studying _her_, that it doesn't go unnoticed. His eyes follow to where hers had flickered—to the open box with a life packed neatly into its corners—and the picture frame he sees on top might as well be a signed confession.

"You wish it was Zack."

She doesn't answer in words, but in that broken look that's become far too familiar. His façade of control cannot stand in the face of her anguish. He closes the distance between them. As her forehead comes to rest against his shoulder with a trembling sigh, he wonders how he'll ever be able to let go.

* * *

The dull ache of her absence sets up residence inside him like a phantom limb. He's so used to worrying about her—where she is, if she's sleeping at all, whether or not she remembered to eat—that it takes a while to break the habit. But if there's any reason he's actually grateful to be back in the service, the unforgiving regimen fits the bill.

It's easier to stop setting his internal clock by Bones time when he has to live on Army time now.

Of course, that doesn't mean he stops worrying completely. He knows she's okay, as news of her filters in through lines on a computer screen. Through Parker, boasting each postcard or artifact received as coming from _the coolest place ever, Dad. Are there as many different kinds of birds where you are?_ Through Cam, who emails him every week without fail, and he can't restrain a chuckle at the familiarity of his friend's no-nonsense approach to life. Through Angela, who writes of Paris in broad strokes and bright colors, as if she could paint it for him to see across the miles. As if the exuberant artist somehow knows that her best friend took all the color from his world when she walked out of it. Pops sends him letters, _none of this funny electronic business, Shrimp, _and these people—they are his links to the world outside the walls of blood and sand. He loves them for the reminders of all that is good and beautiful and worth protecting.

After a while, his heart rate stops ratcheting up a notch while checking for emails from her that never come. He cannot begrudge her this; theirs is a mutual stalemate. The silence only serves to remind him how much there is left unfinished between them.

He writes to her anyway, though—letters and emails that he'll never send, words that need to be purged from his heart before he can even begin to put the past behind him.

* * *

Booth turns towards the bar, his back to the table of merry squints. Theirs is a farewell celebration. His state of mind is more fitting for a requiem mass. He's not sure how long he's been there, nursing a half empty tumbler of scotch and replaying the last two months in his head, before someone taps him on the shoulder.

"You're missing your own party, G-man."

He lifts the glass for a long swallow. Angela settles in next to him, a sad half-smile playing on her lips.

"You and I both know that's not gonna dull the pain."

He grunts noncommittally. "Yeah, well."

"Tomorrow is still day one of you back in G.I. Joe land, and Brennan still leaves next week, and a year from now everything will be different. No matter how many of those you ply yourself with."

"Is there a reason you're telling me this?" Glaring at Angela has never stopped her before, but he figures it's worth a shot.

"Hey, don't try to pull that macho FBI crap with me, tough guy! My father is much, much scarier than you." She sighs a little, whatever nervous energy there was dissipating with her exclamation. "I just can't believe you guys are really going through with this. I mean, Brennan… she's doing what Brennan does; running away when things get too emotional. And that would be fine, except this time, you're running too."

He's already had this conversation. About an hour ago. With Cam. He's not in the mood to do it again.

"I'm not running."

"Oh, please. Can you honestly tell me that you would have even considered this if she weren't leaving too?"

The way she says it, like it's a foregone conclusion that all his decisions are based on Brennan's cues and that's exactly the way it should be, makes this easier somehow. Clarifies how much he needs to just get on with living his own life already.

"What do you want from me, Ange? She's going. I can't… I can't do this anymore."

The artist beside him falls silent. He glances at her—at the way her always expressive face radiates happiness despite the current situation, at the way the dim light of the bar only accentuates the glow that comes from within—and can't help but envy Hodgins.

"You're right, Booth. You guys need some distance. It's what we artists call _perspective_." She nudges him with a wink. When she speaks again though, all trace of humor is gone from her voice. All that remains is tenderness. And hope. "But while you two are off on opposite sides of the world finding yourselves, don't forget what you know in your heart."

"I don't know anything anymore."

She grips his hand fiercely. "Yes, you do. You _know. _You've always known. She knows too, she just needs time to accept it."

"Angela, don't—"

"Just look at me and Hodgins. We hurt each other. Worse than hurt each other. If we can make it back from that and find happiness in a backwoods jail cell, then anything is possible."

He has to laugh a little at that. She smiles, one of those breathtaking smiles that can convince most people that anything really _is_ possible, and brushes a light kiss across his cheek. As she pulls away, he can feel her eyes still on him. "Please, be careful, Booth. Be careful you don't run so far that you can't find your way back."

He wants to protest again, to remind her and himself that he's not running. But she's already gone.

* * *

He spends a lot of time running. Sometimes he brings his iPod to blast the thoughts away, but more often than not the songs remind him of her. Of having to slap her hand away from changing the station, or explaining why Led Zeppelin tickets are something you definitely share with your partner, or all the times he wanted to hear her sing again but couldn't bear to see the haunted look in her eyes if he dared ask. After a while he stops trying to fight it. His pre- Reveille jogs become a kind of Bones-therapy, something that he will never, ever tell Sweets about as long as he lives.

He thinks about change. About eye contact and evolution. About coffee and how entropy is a natural force that pulls everything apart at a subatomic level, and how he _did _make her fall without making sure he could catch her. About _I knew_, and _the center must hold_.

He doesn't think about how _everything happens eventually_, because then he'd be forced to confront the fact that _everything_ already happened, just not the way he'd hoped.

He thinks about how much she's changed already in the time that they've been partners, and what it would take to get her to acknowledge that change within herself. Mostly though, he wonders about the changes she's going through without him, and if the woman he will meet at the reflecting pool a year from now will be a stranger.

He's not running to or away from anything; only counting the steps and trying to figure out where to go from here.

* * *

He heads outside for some much needed air after that display with Angela and her irritating insights.

In and out, in and out. Simply memorizing the way the D.C. air fills his lungs with the heartbeat of the city. There's a stifling quality to it now, but he knows that it won't be long before homesickness kicks in.

The door opens and shuts behind him, and Booth knows he doesn't need to turn around. She'll just stand there in silence with him if that's what he wants. He turns around anyway.

And there's this moment.

She smiles at him, and he smiles back, and they're just _them_. Just Booth and Bones, without all the other crap. Just two people who have been on so many journeys together, and this is simply one more. For just that moment, nothing else matters.

Until it does. Her smile falls, and she steps toward him. He hates the hesitancy in her approach. Hates more that it's his own behavior that makes her uncertain. She's so self-conscious around him now; as if he were some ancient bone that she can neither put down nor grip too tightly for fear it will shatter into a million shards. So she clings to him, gently, tentatively, and it breaks his heart just a little bit more.

Except when she doesn't.

Except when she's not gentle or tentative, but careless and dense in that way only Brennan can be. He doesn't know which to expect from her anymore.

That breaks his heart too.

"Are you leaving?"

He startles. Does she really think he'd go without saying goodbye?

"Nah, just needed some air."

Brennan points back over her shoulder. "If you'd rather be alone, l can—"

"No, Bones, it's fine. I'll be alone soon enough."

He doesn't mean it as accusation, but guilt is written all over her face.

"I'm sorry. I just… I need time."

He remembers standing in this exact spot, pleading with her not to make any decisions about the future. For all the good that did him.

"Is a year enough time?"

"I don't know. I hope so." She bites her lip, struggling with something. He knows before she speaks that she's come to a decision. "But…. I don't need space, Booth. I don't _want _space."

He hears the echo of his own words, a few feet and a million years from here, carried on a voice still raw from the sting of her doubt in him. He had thought that nothing could ever hurt him more. He had been wrong. Her doubt in _herself _hurts far worse.

He smiles sadly, grateful for the sentiment despite the lack of truth behind it. "Putting a couple of continents between us _is_ space, Bones. A whole lotta nothin' but space."

She comes closer, the contours of her face soft and inviting. "No, I… I meant tonight. I don't want any space between us tonight. I'd like to go somewhere. Just us. We can go wherever you'd like and talk about things, or not talk about things… I would very much like to be with you, the way we used to be."

His jaw trembles as he clenches it. In fact, his whole body feels like it's shaking; like he's wound too damn tight and about to burst. She's offering him what he wants so badly—to pretend, to turn back the clock. But he can't. He doesn't know how to go that far back. And it makes him angry at her for being this way, for being _her_, for pushing him away with one hand while pulling him back into her orbit with the other in the same instant.

"That's a bad idea. I should get home anyway. Early day tomorrow, you understand."

He doesn't mean to snap, but it comes out that way. She has no idea what she's asking of him. His control is hanging by a thread, and if she keeps pushing…

"Let me come with you."

"Godammit!"

The bus shelter once again bears the brunt of his emotions, and this time he hears the plexiglass crack beneath his fist. Brennan gasps and rushes at him, but he waves her away. He closes his eyes and breathes in, focuses on the burn and the blood working its way down his hand. He can feel her waiting for him, and almost laughs bitterly. They remain frozen in that tableau for what feels like an eternity. When he finally lowers himself to the bench with a sigh, she doesn't wait for an invitation. She grabs his hand, studying it, flexing the fingers. Without saying a word, she wipes his bleeding knuckles with the hem of her blouse. He can feel fresh splatters of moisture on his hand, and knows that it isn't the cuts weeping. Tugging his hand away from her ministrations, he wipes gently at a tear tracing its way down her cheek. The emotional rollercoaster of the last few weeks has finally caught up to her and, no matter how much he's hurting, he can't imagine how overwhelming being flooded with emotions you're used to compartmentalizing must be. She rests her head on his shoulder, turns into him, and when she speaks he can feel her lips brushing against the crook of his neck.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please, Booth."

He's not sure what _please _is supposed to mean, or what she's asking from him. But there's only one answer he can give her.

"Stay," he wants to say, but it comes out as, "No, Bones."

* * *

He tries not to dwell on what could have happened that night if he had said yes.

It's not what she was offering, but it's what _would_ have happened. Without the promise of eventually and no more hope of holding out for the whole enchilada like some romantic sap, there would have been nothing to stop him from taking whatever she was willing to give. Expect pride, maybe, but sinking into nostalgia with her was a risk he wasn't willing to take. Besides, a night together wouldn't change anything. Despite what his ego would like to think, her answer in the morning would have still been _I can't_.

It's only with twenty-twenty hindsight though, that he realizes it's not about running away for her either. She had lost the person she thought she was supposed to be, and how could he fault her for going off to find her again? Tipping the scales of their status quo made her question herself in a way he never imagined. It would actually be funny if it wasn't so tragic, what a huge miscommunication took place between them that night at the Hoover. His fault, really. After all that patient waiting, to go about it in such an asinine way. He heaped all of it at her feet without using any of the words that mattered. He didn't tell her that it doesn't make a difference if she believes herself incapable of giving him what he needs, because he doesn't need her to be anything but herself. That he doesn't want her to change. That he'll prove it to her if she lets him. That he sees… knows… _loves_ exactly who she is, and she does deserve it. That her (metaphorical) heart is all he's ever wanted.

He counts all the ways he fucked up the highest-stakes game of his life. This feeling. _This._ He should have remembered it's why he stopped gambling.

* * *

After the scene outside Founding Fathers, he doesn't know how he'll handle another goodbye, but letting her get on that plane without one is out of the question. It doesn't matter that some snot-nosed brat won't give him a day-pass. It doesn't matter that he has to commandeer the Major's Humvee and break every speed limit to get to the airport. All that matters is when he runs in there, half-convinced she's already boarded and his "No, Bones" will be the last thing he's said to her, her gaze meets his through the crowd. Like she's been looking for him. Waiting for him.

All that matters is the promise of a year from now.

She asks him not to be a hero, not to be _him_. But that's the whole point, isn't it? He has to remember how to be himself without her.

It's all too much. The way she looks so open. The way she holds his eyes like she wants a word, a gesture, a _reason _to stay. So he lets go of her hand first, walks away first. If he lingers another minute, she won't be getting on that plane.

He looks back, like an addict, for that last glimpse of her, and knows he can't look back again. If he does, he'll be trapped forever in that endless stretch of space between them. He'll never be able to go forward, never be the man he needs to be to survive.

He turns away first, and doesn't look back.

* * *

He dreams in shades of grey.

There are only three colors his mind can register now.

The blond of his son's unruly curls. The cool blue of her eyes, made nearly translucent by their reflection off some distant ocean. The red of the blood that is forever etched into the crevices of his hands. He dreams of them each in succession; Parker and Bones and war, but the ones that linger are the nightmares that play out in front of his eyes. Sometimes though…

Sometimes his subconscious finds particularly painful ways of fucking with him.

Sometimes, her nails and lips are stained crimson; the ghost of another desert. The shade of her irises turns deep and hot, as his tongue and hands traverse her milky flesh. She moans, hitching her leg higher over his hip, and he's not confused about what she wants when she breathes, "Please, Booth," into the skin of his neck. He willingly obliges, stroking into her again and again with a fervor and passion that surpasses any biological imperative; that will prove to her once and for all what it means to be _his_. And always, always, his name leaves her on a gasp as she comes apart beneath and around him, pulling him with her into the abyss.

Sometimes, in the early hours of dawn, he can't tell which aches more—his erection, or his heart.

* * *

Corporal Marks finds him just as Booth is heading to the mess for some noontime chow.

"Sarge, hey, Sarge!" The young man weaves through the throng of snipers with food set in their sights.

"Woah there, Corporal. Where's the fire?"

Marks takes a moment to suck in a breath. "You're needed over at SATCOM right away, sir. Some kind of emergency call from home."

The kid doesn't even have time to catch his bearings before Booth is off and running. He's on autopilot, bursting into the communications office like a bat out of hell. It's the middle of the night in D.C. Whether it's Rebecca or Jared calling, the news can't be good.

He practically rips the phone from the hand of a startled officer, heart thudding painfully in his chest.

"Hello?"

A voice crackles to life on the other end of a shaky signal. "Booth? It's me. Bones."

Beyond the alarm and confusion, a sudden warmth spreads through his chest. It means something that after all these months with no contact she still embraces the name he gave her.

"Bones? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. There's nothing wrong."

"It doesn't sound like nothing. Did something happen?"

"Nothing happened, Booth, I promise you. I just…" She hesitates so long that he's already halfway to Indonesia in his head by the time she continues. "I just needed to hear your voice."

He deflates, completely bewildered and a little bemused. The residual adrenaline coursing through his body is starting to cause a throbbing at his temples.

"'You just…'? You know, giving me a heart attack by saying it's an emergency kinda defeats the purpose there, Bones."

Her voice is reassuringly matter-of-fact over the tenuous connection. "It is highly unlikely that you would suffer an actual coronary as a result, Booth. Besides, it was the only way I could get them to patch me through."

"How did you even get this number? It's classified."

"Cam. She said to tell you 'you're welcome', but neglected to clarify why you should be thanking her."

He chuckles wearily, simultaneously annoyed and grateful to his friend for meddling.

"Oh, I'll thank her alright." It's starting to sink in that he's talking to Bones. That she called him, right out of the blue. Presumably, just to hear his voice. "So… wanna tell me the real reason you called?"

"I had a… rather disturbing dream. I realize that it was wholly the manifestation of my subconscious fears as opposed to any prophetic vision. Even though it's irrational and only appeasing for my own state of mind, I needed to make certain that you are alright."

"Wow. I'm touched, Bones." He makes it sound light, but there is no way in hell he's taking this lightly. "So, uh… how are you? How's your ape-man coming along?"

"_He_ is in fact a _she_." That familiar scholarly reproach enters her tone. "And _she _is an interspecies hominid."

"Yeah, okay. So, ape-woman, then."

"Booth—"

"Bones, uh, running a little low on phone time here. Just tell me how you are."

"I'm fine, really. The team here is very good, and the work we are doing is revolutionary. In fact…" She hesitates again, and he instinctually braces himself. If she's decided to stay— "In fact, it is going so well that I may not require as much time here as originally anticipated."

He can't possibly be expected to wrap his head around the nonchalant way she drops _that_ little bombshell. "What?"

"It is reasonable to anticipate that my research will be completed a couple of months ahead of schedule. If that is the case, perhaps you could—"

"No!" It comes out harsh; more forceful than he intended and the complete opposite of what he wants. But dammit, how can she be so good at offering him his heart's desire at exactly the wrong time?

He can hear her suck in a startled breath, and softens his tone. "Look, I didn't mean it that way. I'm sorry, Bones… I just _can't_."

There's so much more than the Army's wrath at a reneged contract at stake here, and a lack of any better explanation. He remembers her saying those same strangled words, and thinks he understands her better now.

It really is almost as bad saying them as it is hearing them.

"I understand." Her voice is weak in a way he has only ever heard once before and never wanted to hear again. He curses himself once more for having broken them. "I'm sorry too, Booth."

"Be careful over there, 'kay Bones? I gotta go."

He disconnects the call before he can say anything else he'll want to take back. Because in this moment, there's nothing he wouldn't give to simply see her face.

Booth takes a deep breath and turns around. The guys in the room are looking at him strangely. He wonders if even they understand the magnitude of what he's just done. He's halfway down the hall before he realizes why they were staring.

His legendary, ever-steady hands… are shaking.

* * *

His hands do not waver as he squeezes off that fatal shot.

His earpiece crackles to life with, "Target hit confirmed, Wolverine," and it's another one to tip the scales against him.

He thinks he should be wondering how this harsh reality became once again embedded within the fabric of his existence; how the sanctity of human life became dependent on lines on a map, when his conscience had lived outside those boundaries for so long. But the truth is that he's not the least bit surprised that it's come to this.

This is the real reason they needed _him_, with his bad back and his scrambled brain and all his years out of commission. Because it sure as hell wasn't to play commando with a bunch of eager kids who can shoot almost as well as he can. On some level, he's always known that. It's almost flattering in a way that they think so highly of him, the last of his breed of soldier.

Funny that they made a reformed gambler their ace in the hole.

Problem is he's old enough this time around to understand that there is no such thing as victory in this corner of the world. If you're really lucky, maybe you'll get to cash out with your limbs and sanity intact. If you're not… well, he's seen enough to know that there are worse things than coming home in a body bag.

He wipes the sand from his pants and counts the men he has killed for a government he has no choice but to trust.

* * *

It is with more than a little dismay that he realizes he's starting to feel his age. Joints pop and ache, his body finally protesting the way he's pushed it to the limit all these years. He kneels anyway—sometimes with his eyes trained through a rifle's scope, sometimes focused heaven-wards in the only act of contrition allowed to him in this accursed place.

Despite everything, he still prays. He prays that Stanton finds some humility before becoming a victim of friendly fire; that Ramirez will get his leave approved in time to watch his baby girl be born. He prays for Parker to be safe, for Pops to be healthy, for Jared to stay on the wagon and off the booze. And, even though he can practically see her eyeroll in his mind's eye, he prays Bones finds whatever it is she went halfway across the world looking for.

He doesn't bother with himself; with a soul he fears is far past absolution. It's easier to do what's necessary if he leaves that part of his faith behind.

One step in front of another. Each shot, followed by the next.

He keeps moving, keeps counting, and doesn't look back.


	2. That Was Just A Dream

The linoleum squeaks under his muddied boots as Booth paces across the taupe expanse. The triage nurse gifts him with a look that clearly says _sit down before I put you down_. He shrugs unapologetically, too annoyed by the whole situation to bother. If only they would just let him back there... But that's the protector in him talking; the father in him. Things he cannot be to these boys. Besides, that was a rookie mistake, and Watkins needs to man up and deal with the consequences.

He makes one more loop, turns on his heel, clears his throat in the direction of the nurse who is studiously ignoring him.

"Excuse me, do you think you can go check—"

"I just checked two minutes ago. You wearing out the floor isn't going to help your cause."

"Look—"

"Oh, thank God." This last is breathed on a relieved sigh as the door to the waiting room opens. A million questions momentarily lodge in his throat from sheer surprise. It's the doctor alright, but certainly not the one he was expecting.

"What happened to Dr. Hemerly?"

"Hello to you too, Sergeant Major. I'm Dr. Rosen." She smirks up at him, extending her hand. Booth accepts it awkwardly.

"Hello. Sorry, I uh… I just… I wasn't expecting someone so…"

"Female?"

"Huh? No, no. Young."

She smirks again, with as much resignation as amusement. Clearly, she's no stranger to this reaction.

"Right. Well, Dr. Hemerly rotated out three weeks ago. Young or not, I think you're stuck with me."

"Heh, I think I can handle that." He's found his footing now. After all, ball-busting women surround him from just about every angle back in D.C.

"Okay, so, Corporal Watkins. He suffered a displaced fracture of the radial head. That means—"

"Yeah, I got it. The knucklehead broke his wrist."

"The gunslinger knows his bones," the young doctor murmurs wryly. It's all Booth can do to keep from wincing. He knows _his Bones _all right. At least, he thinks he used to.

"Anyway," she continues, "I've splinted his arm, but that's a temporary measure. Manipulating it under these types of conditions is usually unsuccessful. He really needs an orthopedist. The closest one is in Bagram."

"Woah, woah, what are you tellin' me here? The damage is permanent?"

"Unless the fracture is properly reduced he will have long-term deficits, yes."

"What about his career? He's got his whole life wrapped up in this."

She looks at him with a kindness he hasn't experienced in a very long time. "Just get him to SSG Craig, okay? I've made all the other arrangements."

Booth nods numbly. "Yeah, thanks. Thank you."

The corners of her mouth curve upward softly, and he notices for the first time how tired she looks. As tired as he feels. She is halfway through the door before he calls after her.

"I'll see ya, Doc."

There is a smile in her voice as she tosses back over her shoulder, "For your sake, I hope not."

* * *

They are both right, as it turns out, because the next time he sees her, it's _his_ ass in the proverbial sling.

The details are a little fuzzy, but it's all happening so fast, and he's trying to keep up but he must've blacked out for a minute there, and then someone's shining a bright light in his eyes and she's asking him all kinds of questions and before he knows what's happening she's holding a large pair of scissors and cutting through his camos.

"Woah, woah, woah, is that really necessary?" He tries to pull away, but either she's stronger than she looks or he's much weaker than he should be. He hisses at the sharp pain that cuts through him with even the slightest movement of his right leg.

"You've got a bullet in your leg, Sergeant, so yeah, I'd say it's necessary."

"Oh, come on, it's just a flesh wound."

She pins him with a pretty impressive scowl. "Considering you're bleeding out all over these nice white sheets, I think I should just check it out for myself."

Booth watches in resignation as she cuts cleanly through the material on either leg. His pants come apart in two neat halves, and she pulls the front part off before reaching for his shorts. He nearly jumps out of the stretcher.

"Now hang on a second! What the hell are you doing?"

She looks up again, blowing in vain at the strands of auburn hair falling into her eyes.

"What's the matter? Afraid you'll shock me with something I haven't seen before?"

He sputters, searching to the left and to the right for an ally. The field medic putting a new IV into his arm smirks up from his work.

"Forget it, man. She's gonna do what she's gotta do."

And she does. In a clinical manner that, frankly, kind of pisses him off. It's just another day at the office for her. Just like another pain-in-the-ass squint he knows.

But then she covers up everything except his injured leg and looks him right in the eye.

"There's no exit wound. We're going to take some X-rays and then I'll need to go in and get the bullet out. I'm going to tell you everything that I'm doing. Talk you through it every step of the way, okay?"

He suddenly remembers why pain-in-the-ass-squints earned and kept his respect. Then he has to keep reminding himself as he's trying not to watch her dig around in his thigh. Her calm, confident voice filters through his jumbled thoughts, and Booth finds that it's the sound and not the words themselves that comfort him. When she's finished—when the offending piece of metal hits the kidney basin with a triumphant clang—she works on suturing and dressing the wound. Task accomplished, she pulls off her gloves and facemask. He wonders vaguely exactly how much of his blood is adorning her scrubs.

"We need repeat X-rays, and then my work here is done. Do you need something more for pain?"

Booth shakes his head, afraid that with his low tolerance, she's already given him too much. "Nah, it's nothin' but a scratch. I've had worse with less to take the edge off."

She surveys him appraisingly. It evokes the familiar feeling of being weighed and measured, and he finds that it's something he's actually been missing all these months.

"How many times have you been shot, Sergeant?"

He suddenly has a flash of blue eyes and deft hands and _I don't know what that means_. Brennan had asked him something like that too once, something stark and cutting about secrets that are branded right into his bones. The question once again hits too close to home, but now he's no longer sure of the reason.

"What, d'you see something on my X-rays?"

She shakes her head, smiles with a sincere empathy that startles him. "No. I see it in your eyes."

* * *

There's a knock on his door one night, and there she is, dressed casually in civilian clothes. A bottle of _Riazul_ dangles from one hand, and two shot-glasses from the other. There are circles beneath her eyes, dark enough to look like bruises. He decides against asking when the last time she got any sleep was.

"Hiya, Doc."

She chuckles, but it sounds more like a sigh. "You know, I think we can skip the formalities now that I've forcibly removed your pants. Call me Olivia."

He nods, opening the door wider in invitation. He can't help but notice the way she moves; graceful, but with an undercurrent of hidden unsteadiness. Like she's so exhausted that her legs can't support even her small frame any longer.

"I wanted to tell you about Jason Watkins."

Booth can't help the sliver of unease that pricks down his spine at her tone. "And, what? You needed reinforcements?"

He motions to the bottle still clutched in her hand. Olivia looks down as if she had forgotten it was there and shrugs. "I don't know about you, but I could definitely use a drink. You can watch, or you can join me."

He doesn't like the idea of drinking alone in his quarters with this woman. Especially not when the mere sight of the bottle leaves him drowning in a sea of tequila-soaked kisses and bittersweet memory.

"I talked to Dr. Lovett," she says. "He's the Orthopedist in Bagram. The surgery went fine but… Watkins, he has some residual nerve damage. Nothing anyone can do."

"That's it then?"

"That's it."

Booth figures he probably needs that drink after all.

* * *

Words flow as freely as the liquor between them. It's been so long since he's talked to anyone, _really _talked, that once the floodgates open it's hard to close them again. They're sitting on the floor with a half empty bottle when she asks the million dollar question.

"So, this woman you're in love with—"

He almost chokes on the tequila. "What the hell?"

"What?" She looks so innocent, he could laugh. Or cry. Whichever.

"What makes you think that—"

She cuts him off with a pointed look even Cam would appreciate.

"Okay, is this some kind of feminine intuition bullshit?"

"Hah! You said it, not me."

He sighs, giving up a futile argument. "Fine, go ahead."

"Thank you. The woman you're in love with, what's she like?"

He searches for a way to describe Bones that won't make him sound like a completely pathetic sap. "Brilliant. Compassionate. Infuriating." He points a strict finger at her. "That's all you're getting."

"Fair enough. So, are you moving on… or running away?"

He stares into the amber liquid before gulping it down to numb the words. "Running away to a war zone would be a pretty dumb move on my part, now wouldn't it."

"And you're definitely not dumb."

He's grateful she accepts the evasion. "What about you?"

"What _about _me?"

"You know, how did… someone like you… end up in hell's armpit?"

She laughs, but there is very little mirth behind it. "When I signed up, my first week of med school, I thought, it's money I won't owe. That's not patriotic or even particularly noble, but what the hell did I know, right? Later, I thought, I'm _so_ lucky. It's the least I can do to repay my country for what it's given me."

Through the haze of booze and low light, his eyes are transfixed by the curves of her face. For some reason, he wants to know, desperately, what is keeping her here. "And now?"

"Now, I see that countries are just lines on a map. The truth is that under the skin, biologically, we're all the same. And it doesn't matter what you do, or what I do. There will always be war. There will always be pain. All we can do is lessen it a little." She turns to him, green eyes glistening with fierce conviction. "You fight for what's right. You save who you can. You bury the dead. And you live like there's no tomorrow."

The air feels thick with her impassioned words, and Booth finds a strange sort of comfort in the silence. For the first time in longer than he can remember, he doesn't feel so alone. After a moment, he pours them each another shot.

"That was a nice speech."

She laughs, genuinely this time, and it's a sound he wants to hear again. "Yeah, you like it? I figure, the more times I repeat it, the more likely I am to believe it when it counts."

He thinks, she is far too young and beautiful to have seen so much.

* * *

It becomes a regular thing, whatever this is that they're doing. He doesn't really know _what _it is, how to label it, and he doesn't try. It feels good to be around her. To just be himself and not worry about the rest. It's not something he planned, or even particularly wanted, but he won't let the chance slip through his fingers. Olivia is right, about so many things he comes to find, but especially about living like there's no tomorrow. Because for him, there may not be one. So he breaks up the darkness of his days with her easy laugh, with this way she has of putting things wryly into perspective. Sometimes she reminds him of Cam, sometimes of Rebecca, but he never looks at her and thinks of Bones. He won't do either of them a disservice by the comparison.

Still, when he puts himself inside her for the first time, his gut clenches and rolls in violent fury, as if in betrayal of the woman who _isn't_ here instead of the one who _is_. There is a moment of panic until her hand, feather light, cups his cheek.

"Seeley, look at me."

The sound of his given name forces his eyes open. God, he would never forgive himself if she thought he was using her. But her voice in the darkness is strong, and there is no reproach in her expression.

"We don't have to do this. But if we do, it'd better be me you see."

He focuses on her face, and something releases inside of him. Like he's finally purged whatever ghost refused to let him rest.

He'll realize later; that was the moment he stopped counting.

* * *

She is the dream of someone he could have loved with his whole heart, if he hadn't already loved someone else first.

That doesn't stop him from trying.

Sometimes, when her eyes narrow on him in annoyance or indignation, he almost expects to hear _Booooth_ in a rich contralto, both chastisement and affection in one drawn out breath. But she says _Seeley_ instead, and he thanks God for small mercies. Olivia gives of herself freely, effortlessly. In brief moments his traitorous heart wishes it were _her_, wishes fervently that Bones would allow herself this kind of emotional honesty. But then she looks at him with her blessedly green eyes, and it anchors him to a world of possibility, if only he would just _let go_. He still flounders, but every day finds himself closer and closer to a welcoming shore.

He thinks that this is what moving on feels like.

* * *

She leaves for the States two weeks before he does. With her obligation to the military fulfilled, she takes a position at the University of Maryland Medical Center to be close to her family in Virginia.

She and Booth have never talked about a future beyond this place.

The idea of never seeing her again—never skimming his fingers against the spot beneath her ribcage that makes her recoil in laughter, never telling her about his shitty day in under five words and getting perfect understanding in return—makes him unable to _not_ talk about it anymore.

"I need to see you again."

He's watching the smooth lines of her back as she slips out of bed when it tumbles out, the words tripping over themselves in his eagerness to have them heard. She pulls a tank-top over her head and turns to look at him.

"What about your Bones?"

There is no jealousy or malice in the question. He told her more after that first night, so that she would have some idea of where they stood even if he himself didn't. If there's one sin on this Earth he can't be accused of, it's lying to her.

"Liv, I… I don't know. But I _do_ know that I'm not ready for this to be over."

She smiles a little, leaning toward him. His heart pounds in a reaction he can't seem to control for once, and he knows in that moment how much he wants her to say _yes_.

The truth is, he's had enough _no_ for a lifetime.

But when her mouth presses gently to his and lingers, he can taste the goodbye.

She pulls back, tracing his lips with her fingers in a subconscious gesture that never fails to make his breath catch at its tenderness. "Go home, Seeley. See your son. See your partner. Think about what you really want. If the answer to that is this, _us_… you know where to find me."

She's gone before he can find the words to make her stay. If nothing else, at least he's consistent.

* * *

Her departure leaves him with far too much time on his hands to do nothing but think. His heart strains toward the little boy he can't wait to hold in his arms again. It's the rest he's not sure of. He doesn't know if the man he's become can fit back into the fragments of the life he left behind; if he can reconcile the compromises he's made with the desire to start again on the strength of his own convictions. Will Bones still want to help him work towards a salvation he no longer believes is possible?

She _did_ end up coming home early. He only knows that because Cam mentioned it. He hasn't heard from Bones since the impromptu phone call he plays over and over again in his head, wondering what he missed that day. Wondering if he still has a partner. A friend. He doesn't know what to expect from her. Worse, he no longer knows what to expect from himself.

* * *

It's exactly eighty-seven minutes from the time he lands. Eighty-seven minutes of sweaty palms, and hammering heart, and a twisting ache in his belly. He can still taste desert air, sand he'll be washing off for weeks still coating his skin, but he doesn't change, doesn't stop, doesn't _care._ He sets the duffel at his feet and rings the doorbell with a trembling hand. It's like he can't get in enough air, almost like a panic attack, only if a panic attack could be a good thing. When the door swings open she smiles, and exhales his name on a laugh, and wraps her arms around him. She takes him by the hand, leads him inside, and there…. there…

"Jesus, Bub! You're a foot taller!"

Parker barrels into him with the force of a linebacker, and Booth remembers how to breathe again.

* * *

She leaves them alone halfway through Parker's synopsis of the last football season. When she comes back downstairs two hours later, Rebecca finds her son sprawled across his father's lap, both sound asleep.

* * *

In the morning, he makes breakfast for the three of them. They laugh over mouthfuls of sticky pancakes and talk about silly things, and Rebecca's eyes are full of memory and understanding. His son tugs on his sleeve with _You've GOT to see my new hockey gear, Dad, _and that's all it takes to feel like he's finally home.

* * *

He decides on a detour before heading back to his apartment.

He walks the length of the Mall alone, getting reacquainted with what he's given the last year killing for. Because _Freedom Is Not Free_, and no one knows this better than Booth. He strolls alongside the reflecting pool, wondering if she'll have a hard time recognizing him. Wondering if anything can be salvaged now; if she'll be here tomorrow like she promised. If she'll even remember.

No, after everything that's happened, he doesn't expect to see her today.

But somewhere in the distance, like the mirage of some half-formed oasis, he does.

* * *

He blinks. Rubs a hand against tired eyes. But she is still there, a slow smile spreading across her startled face. She takes a step forward and then his feet are moving of their accord, meeting her halfway. His heart is hammering out a thunderous beat to the rhythm of their footfalls, a strange sort of giddiness bubbling up in his chest. She makes him more nervous than he was in a war zone, for Christsakes.

They both stop just shy of reaching the other. He knows she's studying him, cataloguing the difference in muscle mass, the shadows that have altered his features. It's comforting that some things don't change. But then he sees how those expressive blue orbs go liquid as they fixate on him. How there's a tenderness there that's shocking in its intensity.

He was wrong. She could never be a stranger to him.

"Hey, Bones."

"Hi, Booth."

His eyes rake over her greedily. Her hair is shorter than he's ever seen her wear it, porcelain skin darkened by the kiss of the Indonesian sun. She's real and _there_ and more beautiful than he even remembered.

"I know what you're going to say, and you're wrong." Her husky voice is like a balm to his heart.

"Jeez, two seconds, and I'm already wrong about something?"

"Yes. I can anticipate the trajectory your thoughts must be taking right now."

"That's pretty presumptuous there, Bones. What am I thinking?"

"About us. Being here like this, on the day before our prearranged meeting."

"What, just because after a year apart, both of us decided to take a stroll here when we _weren't _supposed to meet? How could I possibly think that was anything other than a completely random occurrence?"

"You're teasing."

"Who, me? Never."

Her slow grin matches his own, and she cocks her head in that endearingly familiar way. Haughty, yet somehow vulnerable.

"I still don't believe in fate, Booth."

He barks out a laugh, and pulls her into the circle of his arms. "And I still do, Bones. I still do."

* * *

She rests her chin in that spot on his shoulder, fitting into him like always. She is soft, pliant, welcoming, beneath his roughened hands. He breathes in the scent that haunted him for a hundred lonely nights. It doesn't seem like torture anymore. When they slowly part, he stays close, fingering the shorn strands of her hair.

"Let me guess: Angela's influence?"

Her hand moves to her head subconsciously, brushing against his fingers. He pulls away like he's been burned.

"It was… a necessary change." She is guileless as ever, but there is something behind her words he can't quite grasp. He's too out of practice at reading her. But in the next instant, he chuckles ruefully. This is Bones. Bones doesn't do subtle.

"Well, I like it. It suits you."

She smiles and lowers her eyes, smoothing her hands against the front of his shirt. "I'm glad you're home, Booth. I found… I found that my daily existence has been somewhat lacking without your presence."

He laughs, draping his arm companionably across her shoulders. "Thanks, Bones. I missed you, too."

* * *

They talk until the sky grows dark, and the sun settles below the horizon, and the bright lights of the Mall cast everything into sharp relief. They sit on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial with cups of coffee and stare at the city sky, and talk about how different it is from the one over the desert, over the jungle.

They don't talk about black restless nights, and war-torn countries, and fresh wounds that go deeper than the skin.

She doesn't mention the phone call, and neither does he. But it hangs in the air between them, tangled in the thick web of uncertainty along with everything else that remains unspoken.

* * *

It's nearly morning when he stumbles into his apartment. He sits on the couch Jared somehow managed to keep free of clutter and rests his head in his hands.

He's a year older, but unfortunately not much wiser. The time away gave him perspective and a handle on the situation, but being around her again seems to strip it all away. If he lets himself, if he gets lost in the rhythm of _them_ again, it would be far too easy to end up right back where he started. That is, driving his partner away.

_If_ he lets himself.

He promised himself, somewhere between _I can't _and _what about your Bones?_, that he wouldn't risk losing her again.

He is done gambling with the pieces of his life. Because, honestly, there's only so many times two people can miss their moment and still have a chance.

He makes a decision.


	3. Choosing My Confessions

Their first case is a warped throwback to the early days of their partnership. Both have spent too many months handing out uncontested orders, and control like that isn't relinquished easily.

He gets impatient and she gets confrontational. They stand toe to toe and argue until the tension arcs like electricity between them. It's not the friendly bickering they've perfected over the years; an undercurrent of frustration fuels the fire. Even if his own instincts weren't screaming with a painful awareness, the others' reaction would be proof enough.

Angela doesn't fan herself with dramatic flourish and exclaim _that's so hot_. Cam doesn't shake her head in thinly veiled amusement. Sweets doesn't lace his fingers together, grin like the cat that got the canary, and state that their behavior is _interesting_. Instead, they all stare with a sad sort of resignation before averting their eyes.

That, more than anything, scares him.

When either he or Bones finally backs off, offering apologies and excuses of trouble reacclimating, disappointment lingers like an unfulfilled promise.

The dynamic between them has shifted, and he doesn't know how to fix it.

It never occurs to him that she would be the one to try.

* * *

He's halfway out the door when she practically stumbles into him, features set with single-minded focus.

"Hey there, Bones. Walk much?"

"Normally I would respond that I walk all the time. But as I am becoming more _down_ with colloquialisms, I am able to ascertain that you are not actually asking how often I am ambulatory." She looks as proud of her deduction as if she had handed him the name of a killer, and he can't help but grin affectionately.

"You're just full of surprises. Am I wrong, or did I see a really old dead guy waitin' for ya back at the lab?"

The mere mention of the skeleton he noticed after dropping her off earlier sets Brennan off in animated explanation.

"That set of remains was actually discovered in England, when workers at a building site stumbled across a mass grave." She leans forward conspiratorially. "I believe him to be a Viking raider, massacred approximately 1,000 years ago."

Either her enthusiasm is really infectious, or he's becoming one hell of a nerd because, God help him, that actually sounds pretty cool.

"So, what's your beef with Leif?" He chuckles at his own lame joke, then continues in order to preempt her anticipated confusion. "I mean, why are you here instead of getting your squinty mojo on with the unfortunate Norseman?"

For the first time, a flicker of uncertainty crosses her face.

"I thought that, perhaps, we could go to dinner."

He can't quite get a handle on that one. "Wow. Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

"I'm fine. Why?"

"Because you're thinking about food, Bones. When there's a perfectly good skeleton within a fifty mile radius that you haven't examined yet. That's gotta be one of the signs of the Apocalypse or something."

She cocks her head to the side, considering. "Perhaps I have reassessed my priorities."

There is a hint of self-awareness that nearly knocks him on his ass in surprise. That can't mean… anything even close to what he wants it to mean. He doesn't even _know _what he wants it to mean.

"Huh?"

"I just… I wanted to talk to you about what's been going on the last couple of weeks. I am not entirely comfortable with how… With how we have been relating to one another."

She's right, and he knows it. Normally he'd be all over grabbing dinner and finding a resolution. But why did it have to be _tonight_, of all nights?

"Look, I know it's been a little weird lately. We just need some time to get back into the swing of things, right? We're okay."

Her voice takes on the edge of irritation. "If that's the case, then why can't we have a discussion? You are the one always preaching the importance of interpersonal communication. And there are things that—"

"Hey, I don't preach!" Booth stares at her hard for a moment, the muscles in his jaw working. When the hell did she become the one chasing _him_ for the chance to communicate? "But you're right, Bones. We'll talk, okay? I promise. Just not tonight."

"I don't understand. Why not?"

"Look, I can't go to dinner. I already have plans."

Her brow furrows in confusion. "But this isn't your usual night with Parker."

"It's not Parker." Unable to stall any longer, he puts it out there as plainly as he can. "It's… there's someone, okay? I'm seeing someone."

For the briefest of moments, a maelstrom of emotions sweeps across her face. But before he can fully comprehend any of them her expression falls shuttered, the cool blue of her eyes reflecting, of all things, _vindication_. As if some experiment had finally yielded the predicted result.

"Oh."

So, okay, maybe blurting it out like that wasn't the best idea he's ever had.

Brennan bites her lip. "Are you back together with Catherine?"

"No. Her name's Olivia. We met over there. In Afghanistan."

"Oh." Her voice is smaller, somehow. Then, she smiles. It looks awkward, as if the tilt of her lips doesn't match at all with the rest of her controlled demeanor. "I'm glad you found someone, Booth. I'd like to meet her."

To his chagrin, he can't tell if he's more relieved or disappointed. But it's comforting to know that they really will be okay.

And if he feels a little guilty, well… it's only because he didn't tell her sooner.

* * *

He's swatting Brennan's hand away from his fries while judiciously chewing on a mouthful of one of those burgers he used to dream about in the desert. There's something different about her today, a kind of relaxed playfulness that is completely disarming.

"What's got you so chipper today, Bones?"

She tries for a look of nonchalance, with little success. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yeah, and I'm the Queen of Sheba. C'mon, don't hold out on your partner."

"I received some pleasant news this morning, that's all." The corners of her mouth are curled up in a tiny smile, but she doesn't elaborate. He leans forward on his elbows, taking the bait.

"Care to share?"

"There are many things that I would like to share with you, Booth. This, however, is not my news to tell."

His mouth goes dry at the suggestiveness in her tone. She can be oblivious to the way she phrases things, sometimes painfully so, but it's not like her to purposely imbue words with this kind of double meaning. He has no idea what to make of it.

"Bones, I—" He's not sure what he's going to say, but whatever it is, he never gets the chance. Her face falls just as he feels someone tap him on the shoulder.

"Lose something?"Olivia slides in beside him, all rosy cheeks and luscious curves, his lucky poker chip clutched between her deft fingers.

"Oh, man! I've been going nuts looking for this. Thanks, babe." He brushes a lingering kiss across her cheek.

"Figured I'd use it as an excuse to see you." She smiles, then directs her gaze across the table. "And to meet the infamous Dr. Brennan."

"I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan," Brennan says briskly.

"Olivia Rosen. I have to admit, I've been dying to meet you."

They strike up a conversation. Olivia is funny and charming, and Bones is… Bones. She doesn't act much differently than she usually does around new people. A little socially awkward, but forthright, and to his relief the two women seem to get along. He's happily munching on his food when it happens, dampening his mood in a way he can't explain.

Bones reaches toward his plate as if to snag another fry and suddenly freezes. The flicker of panic morphs into her mask of neutrality so quickly, that he wonders if he imagined it. Her hand hovers in mid-air for a moment, before falling stiffly back to the table.

After that day, she doesn't steal his food again.

* * *

It sounds like the beginning of a really bad joke.

A man walks into a bar. He takes a seat at his usual table, already occupied by four women engaged in friendly conversation. Two of them, he's slept with; one of them, he's been in love with. None of those three happen to overlap.

The punchline? His life.

"Ladies." He presses his mouth to Olivia's in greeting. "I hope you all are taking it easy on my better half, here."

Cam rolls her eyes. "I'm pretty sure she can handle herself, Seeley."

"Don't call me Seeley, Camille."

"Don't call me Camille."

They grin at each other, and he hears Olivia laugh.

"Interesting dynamic," she mock whispers to Angela.

"Honey, you don't know the half of it."

Brennan remains silent, her far-off gaze caught somewhere between relief and melancholy.

* * *

In what seems to be a recurring theme, Angela corners him at the bar. A year away has heightened her already effusive personality, and he wonders how it must feel to go from painting the city of lights to once again breathing life into the faces of the dead. Her brightly painted fingernails tap against the counter.

"Déjà vu, huh big guy?"

"Only if you're gonna try and lecture me again."

"I wasn't lecturing. I was meddling. There's a difference."

"Whatever you say."

Her dark eyes are momentarily somber as she motions toward their table, where Brennan and Olivia are speaking animatedly in turns.

"I'm totally breaking the best friend code here but… I like her."

He chuckles at the grudging way she makes the admission. "Good. So do I."

"Yeah, I got that. The bulls in Pamplona are more subtle." He knows what her next question will be before she asks it. "The thing is, do you—"

She doesn't get to complete the thought, because she's jostled from behind by a man trying to squeeze through the crowd. Her hand goes up against her belly protectively as she lurches toward the bar.

And just like that, he knows.

"Hey, watch it Bigfoot!" She glares at the man's retreating back before turning her attention back to Booth. A grin splits his face in genuine happiness. "And why are you the Cheshire cat all of a sudden?"

He arches an eyebrow suggestively, nodding toward her abdomen. "Looks like I'm not the only one to come back with a new person in my life, huh, Ange?"

There is pride, and hope, and a whole world of expectation wrapped up in her responding smile. "You really do put the _Special_ in Special Agent, you know that?"

"Yeah, it's all part of my charm. Now c'mere."

His arms wrap around her in a warm hug. "Congratulations, Angela," he says, and his eyes find Brennan's across the room. His partner smiles, tilting her head as if in response to some question he never asked. The thought crosses his mind that he has no clue what happened to the _stuff_ he so foolishly donated. At the time, brain tumor notwithstanding, there had been little forethought beyond preventing another man from fathering her child. Besides, he's been giving her pieces of himself since the day they met, so what was one more when it seemed so important to her. Now, he just wonders if she ever thinks about it—the baby they could have had.

He clears his throat and turns away. "Hey, where's that squint husband of yours? This calls for a drink."

But the image lingers, haunting in its conjured details: a little girl with fierce blue eyes, who calls him _Daddy_.

* * *

They finally find their footing.

The steps of that old familiar dance come back easily enough; it's the rhythm that is forever altered. There are still lunches at the diner and sessions with Sweets and late nights in her office, knee-deep in paperwork and Thai food. But he doesn't linger in her doorway at the end of a long day. He doesn't stop by her apartment at odd hours, with an excuse on his lips and hope in his heart. He draws lines that never really existed before between them and goes home to another woman. To another life.

Brennan laughs at his stupid jokes and asks him about Olivia and respects the distance he's put between them. But sometimes he catches her watching him, and it feels less like being studied than it does like being mourned. He knows that she's struggling with how his priorities have shifted. To be honest, it goes against his every instinct to keep her at an arm's length. But, dammit, they can't play-act at a relationship anymore. And he deserves a shot at the real thing.

The future he sees now isn't one that resides _someday, eventually_, just out of reach, but is standing right in front of him. Walking towards it, he finally feels at peace.

* * *

Olivia spends a month planning a weekend getaway to South Carolina. She juggles their hectic schedules, even going so far as to coordinate with Rebecca to make sure that Parker can join them. It's a big step, bringing his son, but it's one Booth feels ready for.

The thought that she is _it _for him has crossed his mind more than once in the last few months.

In a jubilant mood, he sneaks away from the office early on Friday and makes a beeline for his apartment.

Olivia has already let herself in.

"Great minds think alike, huh?" she says, after. After, when her leg rests tantalizingly across his waist amidst tangled sheets. He chuckles softly, then flips them, pinning her beneath him. Her face is open and inviting, and he wants this to work so very, very much.

"Liv, I…" The words lodge in his throat. Not because they aren't true, he realizes. But there's some instinct that stops him in that moment, forcing him to choose a different path. "I can't wait to go away with you."

It isn't quite the big finish he was hoping for, but she accepts it in stride like she does everything else. When he lowers his mouth to hers, he shows her with actions what he didn't say with words.

* * *

Two hours later, he's just a packed bag away from his kid, his woman, and the open road. The phone rings as he's shoving a handful of t-shirts into a duffel. _Cam_, the display offers, and a sliver of unease pricks his spine.

"What's going on?"

"Have you left yet?" There's an edge to her voice that makes the muscles in his belly coil like a loaded spring.

"Cam…" he warns, but knows there's no need. Camille Saroyan has always been as direct as they come.

"Max Keenan had a heart attack. Brennan and Angela are on their way to GW Medical Center right now." He's got his keys in hand and is halfway to the front door before he realizes she's still talking. "…didn't want me to tell you. Something about not disrupting your plans. But I know you far too well, big man. There's no way I'd sit on something like this."

"Thanks, Cam."

He hangs up and stands in the middle of the living room, shoulders sagging. There's an ache settling heavily in his chest. The thought of Brennan's pain has always been like a physical blow to him, but the idea that she would be concerned with ruining his weekend when her old man could be _dying_ for Christsakes, compounds it beyond measure. From this vantage point, he can see the discarded duffel where he'd left it on the bed. But it's like he's seeing it from the wrong end of a telescope lens, somewhere far removed from him, and he knows that he won't be walking back into that room.

There's no decision to be made here. His feet carry him the rest of the way to the door almost of their own volition.

Olivia appears from the kitchen, a ziplocked PB&J sandwich in her hand. A snack for Parker, he realizes, and the simple gesture stops him in his tracks.

"Well, shit." She blows out an exasperated breath. "I am personally going to hunt down Andrew Hacker and beat him senseless."

He stares at her, uncomprehending.

"You have a case, right?"

He shakes his head, coming back into the room. "No, Liv."

"Oh." The frown turns to comprehension, then to worry. "Did something happen to Hank?"

He opens his mouth to respond, but she must see the answer in his eyes.

"It's Temperance, isn't it? Is she alright?"

Her perceptiveness never ceases to amaze him. Her concern for a woman she knows broke his heart shakes him to the core.

"Her dad had a heart attack. Liv, I'm so sorry, but…"

"Yes, yes, of course. Is there anything I can do? I know some specialists…"

The goodness of her heart makes his feel heavier, somehow. "No, baby. But I love you for asking."

That isn't the way he wanted to say it. Actually, after the way he choked earlier, he isn't sure he wanted to say it at all. That doesn't make it any less true.

She runs her fingers over his lips as if to caress the words he just let loose into the world. "I love you, too. Now go, silly man. Be with your friend."

He goes, feeling like a grade-A schmuck. Because despite everything, _friend_ doesn't begin to encompass what Bones means to him.


	4. The Lengths That I Will Go To

**Thank you to everyone for the lovely reviews. Your kind words are much appreciated :)**

* * *

Angela texts _Cardiac Unit_ before he's five minutes out. His one thought as he switches on the siren and floors the gas is that Max better not leave Bones again, or else the old con will have more than a higher power to answer to.

* * *

He's not sure what to expect as he rounds the corner to the Cardiac Unit waiting room. She may be a pro at hiding sorrow and vulnerability beneath a sheen of clinical detachment, but he's been allowed behind the curtain. He knows exactly how deeply those scabbed over wounds penetrate, how easily they can bleed again. How losing her father _now_, when they've just begun to forge a relationship, would only reaffirm her conviction that everyone she loves leaves, one way or another.

The sight of her slams into him like a battering ram. She sits flanked by Russ and Angela, her brother uttering low, intense words that Booth can't hear. From the look on her face, it doesn't seem like Brennan's hearing them either. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused, that razor-sharp mind adrift in some point in time other than the present. He wonders if maybe she's got that winter day in 1991 on instant replay, watching her parents drive away for the last time. The thought of her reliving that makes a sharp pain blossom suddenly in his chest. He takes in a startled breath, and Brennan's head snaps sharply in his direction. Despite Cam's assertion that she didn't want him to be told, she doesn't really look all that surprised to see him. She stands as he approaches, and some petulant part of him wants to rail against the unfairness of it all.

There's nothing clinical or detached about the way her eyes search his face. Instead, there's a longing he's never seen from her. Like she's struggling to find the science, the _logic_, in what she feels. Like she needs him to explain things that are beyond anyone's understanding, much less his. But how he wishes he could give her the answers she's looking for.

Her voice sounds hoarse, chafed raw by tightly reigned emotions. "Booth, what are you doing here?"

But she leans into him without reservation before he can even respond. And, for a moment, that damn traitorous instinct flares hot in his belly—that he was made to protect her from the world.

* * *

They sit huddled together with nothing to do but wait.

"You know, statistically speaking, cardiac catheterization is a very common procedure. And the one-year mortality rate is only three percent, so my father has an excellent chance. Especially when you take into account the fact that the arrival to OR time was only forty-five minutes, which is well below the national average. Times less than ninety minutes have been empirically proven to have better outcomes. That is, for patients who present early, of course."

"Of course." He squeezes her hand lightly to show that he's listening. If the way she periodically lets her head dip against his shoulder is any indication, this fact-laden stream of consciousness is more for her own benefit than for his anyway.

"Additionally, there are few risk factors for a poor prognosis in this case. My father is not obese, nor does he suffer from hypertension or diabetes, therefore there is no reason to think that—"

"Bones—he'll be okay. He's a tough old coot, that Max."

"I fail to see how my father's perceived fortitude has any bearing on the rate at which his coronary vessels accumulate atherosclerotic plaque." Her words refute his statement, but they lack the familiar reproachful edge. As if she understands the point he's trying to make and is arguing out of sheer habit.

"The man's got a gift for survival, Bones. That's all I'm saying."

"Technically, you are correct. However, outrunning hitmen and law enforcement doesn't exactly correlate to—"

"You're not gonna give me the benefit of the doubt here, are you?"

She looks at him so earnestly that his throat goes momentarily dry. "Are you asking me to?"

"Yeah," he rasps out. "Yeah, I'm asking."

"Then I will make an attempt to oblige your instincts. However imprecise they may be."

He's still trying to come up with a coherent response to that when she speaks again.

"I feel… surprisingly guilty."

"What? Why on earth would you feel guilty?"

She remains silent for a long time, eyes focused on his hand covering hers.

"Bones?"

"When I left, I didn't really think—I mean, I thought about you, and myself, and how the time apart would affect our relationship. I thought about us a lot. But I didn't really consider my father. I didn't consider that—" She staunches the flow of words, biting her lip. Booth wonders if she even realizes how much she just revealed to him.

"You didn't consider that he might not be around for much longer," he finishes gently. She nods in response, and he feels more than sees the way she swipes at her eyes. He tugs on their entwined hands to get her attention. She looks up, despair making her already delicate features appear that much more fragile. He can't help but trace his thumb against the line of moisture adorning her cheek. "It's okay, Bones. I did the same thing with Pops. I went across the world, not thinking about how little time I have left with him. We just… we just take the people we love for granted sometimes, that's all. That doesn't make it right, but this isn't your fault."

"Do you feel… as if I took you for granted?"

That's a loaded question if he ever heard one. He doesn't even want to consider the implications of her asking it. "I think maybe we took each other for granted, Bones."

"I never meant to." Her wide eyes are fixed on him, filled with a tenderness that makes him swallow thickly past the lump in his throat. He realizes suddenly how close they are, how she's leaning into him like… like…

"Miss Brennan?"

The moment shatters as she jumps up to face the approaching doctor.

"_Doctor _ Brennan. How is my father?"

"We were able to stent the blockage. He tolerated the procedure very well. He's in recovery now, awake and ready for visitors. But," his eyes sweep over the waiting room, "two at a time and family only."

Brennan nods briskly and motions for Russ to follow. Then she falls into step with the doctor, already firing questions in the man's direction.

And, as always, leaves Booth shell-shocked in her wake.

* * *

Three cups of coffee later, Angela launches into a story about Hodgins prematurely baby-proofing the mansion that _already_ makes him feel sorry for the poor squint-ling. Booth can't help but smile though; the bug guy has been wearing a shit-eating grin for weeks, with no end in sight.

"Yes, well, he can afford to," Angela grumbles when he tells her as much. "He's not the one wowing the whole lab with his stunning digestive pyrotechnics."

Booth grimaces in sympathy. "Morning sickness?"

"More like morning, afternoon, and all day sickness. I tell you, this kid had better appreciate the sacrifices I'm making. My favorite pastry is no longer a valid breakfast option."

"Heh, you'll get used to it. Rebecca used to make me…"

Brennan steps back in from beyond the recovery room doors. Both he and Angela rise to meet her, and Booth doesn't miss the exhaustion evident on her face.

"Sweetie, how is he doing?"

Brennan grips the artist's hands as if they were a lifeline. "He's still weak. But the doctors believe that he may be recovering well enough to be released home in forty- eight to sixty-two hours." She glances back at the door behind her. "Even though this was the most likely outcome, I find I am still quite relieved."

Angela lets out a small squeal, pulling her friend into a hug. "That's wonderful, Bren."

Booth smiles but keeps his distance, suddenly wary of a repeat of earlier. Emotional intimacy from her is the last thing he needs right now. Russ saves him from any awkwardness though, when he appears from behind the same doors as his sister.

"Hey, Booth. Dad wants to see you. Says it's important."

Not so much of a save, then. Just replacing one brand of torture with another. He wonders if it can possibly be genetic—how much her family gets under his skin.

* * *

If Booth had to describe Max Keenan, _feeble_ would certainly be at the bottom of his characterization list. In fact, he strongly suspects that anyone who dared call the man that to his face would probably end up eviscerated on a rooftop somewhere. But there is no denying that is exactly how he looks now; like a frail old man, devoid of all his grandeur. He almost feels sorry for him. Almost. And then he is reminded that nothing short of death could rid Max of his bluster.

"What the hell did you do to my daughter?"

Booth chokes back a surprised cough. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. She comes in here, looking for all the world like someone ran over her dog, and then gives me some nonsense about being sorry for taking advantage of me. Me! Now where do you suppose she got a crazy idea like that?"

"Look, Bones just misunderstood something I was trying to tell her, okay?"

"Well, you really upset her, Booth."

He can't tell if he's more offended or impressed at the unbelievable gall it takes to make _that_ statement. "Maybe she was upset because her father nearly died on her, Max."

Max waves his hand in deflection. "Don't give me that crap. I've survived far worse than a bum ticker, and Tempe damn well knows it."

Booth stares at him, agape. "You're kidding me with this, right? You're honestly blaming _me _for Bones being upset when you just had a _heart attack_? That's rich, even for you."

Max seems to deflate, blowing out a deep breath and slumping down into his pillow. His voice takes on the patient tone of a man sharing some critical piece of wisdom, harshly acquired and not to be bestowed upon just anyone. For some reason that, more than anything which came before, strikes a raw nerve.

"You're a good kid, Booth. I've always thought so. You have a mean right hook, which is worthy of respect in my book. And what you've done for Tempe, the ways you've been there for her… well, I can't ever repay you for that. But there's been something different about my baby ever since she got back fromthat dig of hers. Come to think of, since even before she left. And the truth is that if you can't see what's two feet in front of your face, you're not the man I thought you were."

Booth's jaw clenches so hard, he swears teeth crack. "I've never punched an old man in a hospital bed, but don't push your luck, Max."

The other man shrugs his shoulders. "Just something to think about. If there's one thing I know we both want, it's for her to be happy."

A terse, "Get well soon" pushes past Booth's lips before he turns and leaves. In the emotional manipulation lottery, Max Keenan just hit the freaking jackpot.

* * *

Storming back out into the waiting room, Booth has half a mind to keep on going and not look back. He doesn't know who he's more pissed at; Max for having the nerve to read him the riot act, or himself for buying into it. Where does the guy get off dispensing advice like some wise old patriarch? And what the hell was that crack about not seeing what's two feet in front of his face? He's pretty sure that he's actually seeing the situation clearly for the first time in months. More clearly, in fact, than he even lets on. He catches that glint in Bones' eyes sometimes—not of jealousy or betrayal, but of a _hurt _that just about wrecks him—like he's merely another in the long line of people who have abandoned her.

He _knows_, godammit, that he should have been the one person to defy her notions about the transient nature of love, and ended up proving them instead. That by moving on, he made a lie out of everything he ever tried to tell her. But what the hell else was he supposed to do and stay sane?

He sees now that he'd spent so long trying to take care of her needs that he forgot how to take care of his own, and rectifying that is _not _something he's going to apologize for. Not to her, not to himself, and certainly not to Max.

"Booth? What happened?"

She's watching him with a strange mix of alarm and anticipation. He lets out a steadying breath and allows a neutral expression to relax his features.

"Nothing, Bones. Just a little guy talk, is all."

"Well, that's… odd. What could my father possibly want to talk to you about?"

"Max is just worried about you."

"But he's the one who—"

"It's a dad thing, okay Bones? Just trust me on this."

She looks confused, but nods. Temperance Brennan actually lets it go on his word alone, and that startles the anger right out of him. He reaches out to cup her elbow.

"C'mon Bones. Lets grab something to eat and I'll drive you home."

"No, I… I'd like to stay here for a while."

"Okay. Think we can find some better chairs though? These plastic things are murder on my back."

His hand is still resting against her arm, the skin smooth against his fingertips. He knows he should pull away but doesn't, and she doesn't either. Not even when she shakes her head.

"You should go."

This time he does pull his hand away, clenching it into a fist at his side. "You don't want me here?"

"I…"

He's never known her to be so stilted with her words; so careful. It's like some tenuous balance would be upset if she told him what she was really thinking.

"I believe you can still make your trip, Booth."

He blinks. The thought hadn't even occurred to him.

"Bones, come on. I can go to the beach anytime. I should be here."

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but you shouldn't have to change your plans to accommodate me. Besides, Parker will be very disappointed. He's been looking forward to this for weeks."

Well, that was manipulative in a way he hadn't expected. In this moment, however pure her intent, Brennan truly is her father's daughter. Booth eyes her speculatively.

"You sure?"

"Russ has already offered to stay with me for the next few days. I'll be alright."

"Okay, Bones. If that's what you want."

"It is. I'd like you to enjoy yourself."

He nods resolutely, but his chest feels uncomfortably tight. This whole thing doesn't sit well with him. Not much of a choice but to turn and walk away though, so that's what he starts to do. Brennan stops him with a sudden hand on his shoulder.

"Booth."

"Yeah?"

That soft vulnerability adorns her face again, a hint of something he can't define tugging at the edges of his consciousness. It's like a caress, the way she looks at him, and the control he's been holding onto for dear life starts to crack under the weight of her gaze.

Her arms come around his shoulders as she moves into him. His own arms wrap instinctually around her waist, squeezing tightly. Over her shoulder, Russ meets his startled eyes with more understanding than he can stomach.

"Thank you. Thank you for coming, Booth."

The words whisper against his ear and settle in his heart. He can't tell her this, but there's nowhere else he would rather be.

* * *

Olivia leaves the decision up to him. In the end he chooses not to disappoint her or Parker. They've only lost a few hours, but his excitement about the whole thing is pretty much gone with the wind.

He pushes the image of tear-filled blue eyes out of his mind and musters some enthusiasm for the sake of the people beside him.

* * *

Being away from the city calms the turmoil inside him. They lie in the sun and chase a Frisbee and boogie board until his son's lips turn blue from being in the water too long. Olivia and Parker bury him neck deep in the sand, then shriek loudly when he lifts one under each arm and tosses them into the frothy waves of the ocean.

He can't stop watching her—white sundress flowing against tanned skin, hands that have pieced together more lives than his have taken, green eyes alight with warmth and laughter. In the evening, after Parker collapses into a sun induced coma, they make love in the hot-tub on the deck that leads off of their bedroom. As she straddles him, backlit by the star-filled sky, he can't contain the gratitude at having found someone who accepts him so completely, even if he doesn't deserve it.

When he drifts off to sleep, his mind may wander more than it should. It may stray three-hundred and seventy miles north, to the woman who set him free to come here even as she gripped him tightly, telling him more with actions than she ever has with words.

He's always been so good at reading her, at _knowing_ her. But maybe Max is right. Maybe he's been so unwilling to risk being pulled once again into her orbit and drowning in a sea of unrealized potential, that he's not looking as closely as he should.

Maybe he's afraid of what he'll see.


	5. Like A Hurt, Lost And Blinded Fool

**Thank you all so much for the reviews! I'm behind on responding, but promise to get there soon. As always, your thoughts are much appreciated :)**

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* * *

**

He returns to D.C. burdened by a completely disproportionate sense of guilt. None of this was ever about her permission or her approval, yet she's given him both. Hard to tell which is worse—her tacit acceptance of the situation, or his own responses to it. Because the truth is that if it were Cam's dad, or even Angela's, he probably would have stayed. So the fact that he folded like a cheap deck when she told him to go? It doesn't take Sweets to point out that there's some overcompensation going on there. And moving on is hard enough as it is without constantly looking back over your shoulder, questioning if the priorities by which you structure your life were choices of your own free will, or someone else's.

It still feels somehow unnatural to be nurturing a future in which Bones is only a peripheral player. For some reason, he can't stop thinking about how she cancelled a speaking engagement when Pops had pneumonia last year. They spent the better part of three days playing dominoes in a hospital room, and when they took him home Hank had whispered, _"Whachya waitin' for, Shrimp? You're never gonna score big if you don't show some gumption."_

Of course, that was before… everything. Gumption got him so far, and then it got his life turned inside out. That knowledge is the only counterweight he's got to self-reproach over not sticking around. Worse, over _enjoying_ himself. Over being grateful at finally having some semblance of a normal life.

He has a hard time believing this is how things were supposed to turn out.

To add insult to injury, the words of a sly old conman repeat themselves on a loop inside his head, urging him to take a closer look at everything he believes to be true.

* * *

There's no new case providing him with a reason to see her. He calls to check on Max, considers swinging by and taking her to lunch, but in the end the guilt makes him keep his distance. By Wednesday morning he's got so much pent up anxiety about the whole thing that Olivia actually calls him out on it.

"Just go talk to her."

He freezes, suit jacket dangling from one arm. "What?"

"Temperance." She rolls her eyes at his conspicuously blank look. "Dr. Brennan? Your partner? Jeez, Seeley. I really hope you're better at faking out suspects."

"Am I that obvious?"

"Let's just say your poker face could use a little work." She pulls in a deep breath, blows it out slowly. "Whatever you guys disagreed about, I'm sure she'll forgive you."

"Look, we didn't… disagree. I just feel bad about her dad and… everything." It's the closest he can come to articulating what he feels. But it's a lie, and he suspects they both know it.

"She knows you do. When I talked to her yesterday—"

"You talked to Bones?"

"Of course I did. I called to see how she was doing." She chews on her bottom lip nervously, but her eyes never waver from his. "She asked about you. How you are, really. Like you haven't had a meaningful conversation in a long time. I'm not comfortable with being the reason for that."

His eyes widen with incredulity. "Am I hearing this right? You're asking me to have a meaningful conversation with Bones?"

"Look, I'm not going to stand here and tell you I'm not jealous, okay? If you thought I was some kind of saint, here's your wake-up call. But you're all worked up over this, so you need to fix it." Olivia steps closer, her reasonable tone finally wavering. It's written plainly in every gesture how much this is costing her. "And if you tell me it's still me that you see, then I believe you."

His chest tightens at her words, and he reaches out to her. "It is, Liv. It's absolutely you."

Her embrace eases the tension inside him. In this moment, it's easy to forget why he's been so worried.

* * *

Booth actually hates Wednesdays.

On Wednesdays he has to sit through a painful update meeting with the other agents in his division, teach a 'Dealing With Stressful Situations' seminar to the new recruits (_is this your idea of a joke, Sweets?_), meet with someone from the D.A.'s office about any ongoing cases, then ride his desk the rest of the day. Unless they have a fresh case, which, they still don't.

Wednesdays are just plain painful, and their only saving grace as far as he's concerned is that when they're over, it's Thursday. Which is the day before Friday.

So, not to put too fine a point on it, Wednesdays are generally crappy, and this one is clearly no exception.

He dozes through the morning meeting with nary a snore, talks to the grunts about not shooting any clowns (_on top of ice cream trucks or otherwise, unless they shoot at you first_), and reschedules a testimony prep with Caroline he's already rescheduled twice, for which he earns a stern threat he takes very seriously.

By lunchtime, he's so annoyed, that even a session with Sweets doesn't seem like such a bad idea.

In a fit of irritation he decides to man up and wanders over to the Jeffersonian, intent on getting the proverbial monkey off his back.

* * *

She's not on the platform, or in her office. It's been a while since he spent any considerable time in here, so he peruses the shelves while he waits.

And promptly realizes that her father was right. Something is very different.

He hadn't noticed before now how much she'd redecorated. Some of the weighty anthropological tomes have been replaced by books on nature and travel. A painting signed with Angela's loopy scrawl adorns a wall previously devoted to tribal artifacts. Where before there were only skulls and ancient relics, photos of friends and family now bring the shelves to life. As he moves closer to her desk, the picture right next to her nameplate stops him cold.

Parker stands, holding a blue ribbon, flanked by Max and Booth himself. The February before last, he thinks. Hockey and soccer trophies are a big deal too, but this was a _science fair_.

_("My kid is an honest-to-goodness, bona fide squint, Bones!" He tries to make it sound like a whine and fails miserably to keep the pride out of his voice._

"_Yes, he is. You have to be careful, Booth, or he may end up a squintern."_

"_Honey, don't tease the man."_

"_Bones! Did you just make a joke? At my expense?"_

_Her responding smirk is nearly worthy of its own award.)_

And here it is, that moment, taking the place of honor on her desk.

The three of them, like they're _hers_. He has no idea what to make of that.

Before he can give it any more thought though, something else on the desk catches his eye. He's not in the habit of going through her things, but the unsettling feeling starting to creep in overwhelms the boundaries of privacy.

It is a proof of an article, _Property of National Geographic_ watermarked on each sheet. The content itself—endangered species of the Indonesian archipelago—isn't really anything that concerns him. Or Brennan, for that matter. But that isn't what got his attention. Somewhere between the orangutans and leopards, there is a picture of his partner. She is crouched in the dirt, the bones of what he assumes to be some long extinct creature visible beneath her nimble hands. Her face is angled away from the camera. Even on the small digitized image, he can tell from the set of her shoulders and jaw that she is deep in thought about something other than the task in front of her.

Booth flips to the first sheet and reads the byline: article by Jeff Lindman, photography by Grant Moore. Then he goes back to the image of Brennan, and he can almost taste the bile rising in the back of his throat.

Something about the way the photographer captures her—the play of light and dark illuminating her in such a way as to highlight the woman instead of the scientist—suggests an intimacy that makes Booth's stomach churn. He knows that he doesn't get to feel possessive, that he doesn't get to feel much of anything beyond partnerly affection. That he's been going home to Olivia for months now, and as far as he knows, his mind could be playing tricks on him where this picture is concerned. The guy is just really good at his job, it doesn't mean that anything happened between them, and even if it _had_, it's none of his business anyway. Just when he's taken a couple of deep breaths and managed to get a grip, he notices the post-it note on top of the Fed-Ex package the article obviously came in.

_Temperance,_

_I thought that I had shot the world from every possible angle. Thank you for the privilege of seeing it through your eyes. _

_See you in New York._

_ G.M._

In an instant, white hot, righteous anger threatens to consume him. While he was off dodging bullets in a stinking war zone, goddamn _heartsick_ over her, struggling to even let another woman into his life, she was living it up on a tropical island, satisfying those damn biological urges with some Ansel Adams wannabe. That she could turn her back on him and everything they'd shared so easily, so readily, while he was torturing himself with _what could have been_ is inconceivable. But what more evidence does he need?

"Booth?"

He stares at her uncomprehendingly for a moment.

"Do we have a case?"

"No, not yet."

"Oh. Then what are you doing here?"

He vaguely remembers coming here to make things right between them. Now, he just needs to get away clean before he has a completely unwarranted meltdown.

"I… uh… I came to talk to you. But I forgot about something I had to do back at the office, so it's going to have to wait."

Brennan walks past him to drop the file she's holding onto her desk. Then she nods, eyes downcast. "I see."

The disappointment in her tone agitates him further, so he turns to go. He's halfway out the door before she stops him.

"Booth?" She waits until he's looking at her to continue. "I've surmised that the decreased frequency of our communication is due to your involvement in a monogamous relationship. But perhaps Olivia wouldn't mind if we occasionally spent some time together? I find her to be very understanding."

"She is. Very understanding."

There must be something about the way he says it—too forcefully, or maybe like he's alluding to something else—because Brennan's lip trembles. "Do you think that… that she will be with you forty or fifty years from now?"

He grimaces, unable to believe now that he ever said those words and expected Bones _not_ to run away.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, she's given me something much more important."

"I don't know what that means."

Talking about this, going back to that moment he'd sworn was behind him, is only adding fuel to the fire. "It means I never wanted the promise of forever, Bones. Just the truth. You're all about the truth, you should get it. How you're always saying you need all the facts to come up with a scientific conclusion. I need that in my _life_."

"What?" Her voice is strained, breathless.

"To know where I stand. To know in no uncertain terms how someone feels, what they think, what they _want_. What I mean to them. _That's_ what matters. When they have the courage to tell you, and to show you. Every day, whether it lasts one year or fifty."

His voice has reached a decibel inappropriate for the workplace, but it's too late to censor himself. He feels like his head is spinning.

"You're angry."

"That's why you're a genius."

"Why are you acting this way?"

"Because you're asking questions you have no right to ask, Bones!"

The irony isn't lost on him; if he were only to ask, she would tell him all about her sexual conquests in excruciating detail. But he's already had enough masochism for one day.

"Maybe we shouldn't be speaking at all, considering everything I say seems to agitate you." She sounds more offended than hurt now, and that should be his first clue to back off. It's like watching a car wreck in slow motion, seeing all the signs, but being rendered incapable of saving yourself.

"That seems to be your M.O. Just ignore a problem until it goes away. Or until you do."

"So, by that rationale, if I cease to acknowledge your presence, you _will _go away, correct?"

"I'll save you the trouble. Consider me gone."

"Good. Don't let the door accost you on the way out."

"It's—you know what? Fine!"

"Fine!"

But he's not fine, and he's not gone. That haughty, condescending tone is a challenge he can't help but answer. In fact, he suddenly realizes that the whole time they've been yelling at each other like lunatics, they've been moving closer, and are now nose to nose in a battle of wills. The intensity he's been trying so hard to ignore crackles between them, a powder keg of pent up energy ready to explode.

It's been a long time since he invaded her personal space this way. But instead of inappropriate or dangerous or any of those things, it feels _exhilarating. _Freeing, in a way he hasn't experienced in what seems like forever.

And arousing in a way he hasn't experienced in even longer. He feels the stirrings of angry desire against his thigh. The more he tries to fight, the more it engulfs him until every inch—heart, lips, cock—are straining towards her in irrevocableneed. Brennan's pupils are dilated, eyes glistening with the trace of unshed tears, and her breaths are coming in tiny, rapid puffs that fan out across his lips. Her gaze flicks to his mouth, then to his eyes, then to his mouth again. One more second of her looking at him like that and he'll snap, he thinks. One more second, and he'll betray his principles, become a man he swore he would never be and take her against the desk in desperation_**.**_ Just one more second and…

"Dr. Brennan, I have something you need to see…" Cam freezes in mid-word, then turns on her heel. "And this is clearly something I _don't _need to see."

They watch her hurry out of the office, but can't bear to face each other again. Brennan steps away first. She squares her shoulders, and focuses on something outside the glass walls.

"You should go, Booth."

He nods mutely, swearing he sees his partner swipe at her cheeks before he follows Cam out.

* * *

The telltale clatter of her stilettos is right behind him before he even makes it out of the lab.

"What did I walk in on back there?"

"Nothing. Bones and I were just having a… disagreement."

He increases his pace, but she thinks nothing of grabbing his shoulder and pulling until he's forced to meet her troubled face.

Great. Another confrontation with a woman who doesn't know when to quit.

"Is that what you're calling it? Because from where I was standing, it looked like—"

"What? Go ahead, lay it on me. What did it look like?"

"It looked like you need to get a grip, Seeley."

"Drop it, _Camille_."

They stare at one another through a tense silence. It's like a parody of one of those old Westerns.

Showdown at high noon in the forensics lab.

Cam's shoe taps briskly against the floor; Booth clenches and unclenches the fists at his sides. Anyone else would back off, clearly interpreting his desire to shoot first and ask questions later. But Cam doesn't intimidate. Never has. It's one of the reasons she knows things about him that nobody else ever will.

"Look, big man, I don't know what's going on. Quite frankly, I'm not sure I want to. But I'm telling you, as your friend, you need to sort yourself out before it's too late."

But instead of a concerned friend's words, he's only hearing the implications. The subtle looks from the squints, the talk with Max, his own brash actions—they all add up to something he just can't tolerate anymore.

"Why is everyone acting like I committed some cardinal sin against her? What was I supposed to do? Pine forever? Spend my life alone? I moved on."

"If by 'moved on' you mean buried your feelings for Dr. Brennan so deep that you need an excavation team to get to them, then I can see that."

"Get over it. Bones clearly has."

"Clearly." She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "Look, there's something you—"

"I don't want to hear any more of this crap. I'm happy! Godammit Cam, I deserve to be happy!" His outburst is fueled by a desperation he didn't even know he felt. Worse, he can't tell if it's for Cam's benefit, or for his own. But she just shakes her head, the set lines of her face softening into a somber acceptance.

Those dark eyes have always seen right through him, and this time is no different.

She stretches upward, pressing a soft kiss into the corner of his mouth.

"I know, Booth. Just… figure out what that means."

She leaves him there, the sharp sway of her retreating hips leaving no room for argument. He stares after her for a minute. Shoves his hands into his pockets and takes them out again. Looks around like he's not sure where he is anymore.

He wanders out of the building in a kind of indignant haze, his head pounding so hard, it feels like he's spent the day listening to that death metal crap Sweets likes.

Cam is way off base.

Everything was fine until that stupid article set him off and Brennan brought the whole thing to a head. He'll just go home, cool off, and apologize tomorrow. Everything will be fine.

Except…

Except he's full of shit and he knows it.

What happened back there, between him and Bones? That is most definitely not _fine._ That's about as far from _fine _as he can get.

Jesus. What is he supposed to do now?


	6. What Of All These Fantasies

**Thank you so very much to all of you who have reviewed, alerted, and continued to follow this fic. I apologize that it has been so long since an update- the current status of the show made it necessary for me to take a step back from writing Bones!fic. But I'm back now, and am planning on another update before Thursday's episode. I suspect we'll all be rendered incoherent after that point ;)  
**

* * *

Thursday does not find him in his normally jubilant mood. What with having nearly lost his mind and all.

The only saving grace was Olivia working the graveyard shift last night; he has no clue how he would have explained making an even more complicated mess of things.

A mess that culminated in the necessity of a cold shower and a handful of aspirin before he was able to drift off into a restless sleep.

Now, in the harsh light of day, the whole thing seems that much more inexcusable.

They're partners. Friends.

Sure, once upon a time he had wanted more. If he's really honest with himself, a part of him will probably always ache for what could have happened between them.

But all that potential never materialized into anything except heartbreak. It sent him, licking his wounds, to the other side of the world. It nearly wrecked their working relationship. He's spent the better part of a year building a new life and here he is, pissing it all away over a picture he never should have seen and assumptions he shouldn't be making. Brennan was already bent over the desk in his head, for Christ's sake, and if they hadn't been interrupted…

His partner would probably chalk it up to a physiologic response to anger; something about central neural pathways and hormonal stimulation, but he knows better. This may have been the first time in a long while that his control slipped enough to allow it, but he's been _responding _to her like that since the day they met. Since the moment he stood toe to toe with her, in all her brilliant, pig-headed, condescending, aggravating, and unbelievably gorgeous glory. When she turned up her nose with that haughty grin, a challenge he could never back down from, and he just _knew._

So, yeah. Cam probably had every right to give him the third degree. Since when did he start acting like some wet-behind-the -ears punk, anyway?

The time to man up, he figures, is way past due.

* * *

He doesn't really plan on eavesdropping. And, it's not even really eavesdropping. More like… overhearing.

Yeah, that's it.

Lurking around Bones' office and overhearing.

He's already invaded her privacy once this week. But the lure of her voice, of unfiltered words that once belonged only to him, holds him captive. It's been a long time since the lines of unguarded communication were open between them.

Yet another thing he should probably apologize for.

So, he stays.

Because the desire to know her again is a tight fist around his heart.

"—due to the effects of catecholamines released into the circulation."

"Really, Bren? That's the story you're sticking with?"

"I don't know what that means."

"Yes, you do. You know exactly what that means."

The sudden silence carries a tension that startles him. It's certainly nothing new that Angela pries and teases, but she usually doesn't push past the limits of where Brennan is willing to go. The fact that she's doing it now speaks volumes about how much of his partner's life he's not privy to these days.

Brennan sighs. It is a weary, resigned sound, that for some strange reason makes him feel a pang of melancholy on her behalf.

"What do you want, Ange?"

"The question is, sweetie, what do _you_ want?"

"I want…"

Her tone is so wistful, so unlike her, that he leans forward, breath held. As if being still and silent and _close_ will coax forth a response different from anything having to do with academics or crime-solving, science or bones. It's the weight behind every lingering glance, the response to every question he's never asked, all wrapped up in her answer.

"I want to finish this report before Booth comes looking for it."

The words are a bucket of cold water, dousing him with a generous helping of reality.

It's not his place to worry about what she wants anymore. He's only here to salvage what's left of their friendship.

Angela, on the other hand, can always be counted on to carry on undeterred. "Don't you think Booth knows by now that you're keeping something from him?"

"How could he possibly—"

"Because he's _Booth_, sweetie. He may not be around as much, but the man still puts the _sight_ in _insightful_."

"I agree that Booth is very sensitive to the ranges of human emotion, Ange. But everything has changed between us. I sometimes think he doesn't see me at all anymore. Which is to be expected, I suppose. "

This is who he is now, how she sees him. How he's _made _her see him. Self-preservation created this impasse between them; forced him to pull himself far enough out of her orbit for the space to eclipse the way he burns under her light. But how can he stand idly by and let her reduce his agonizing decisions to inevitability?

This may be what she expects from him, but he expects far better from himself.

Booth steps into view, propping his shoulder against the doorway. "Hello, ladies. Bones, do you think we can talk for a minute?"

"I'm busy. Angela and I—"

He shoots the artist an imploring glance, hoping that the situation isn't so bleak that she'll let Brennan use her as a shield.

"Actually, I was supposed to help Cam with… something. You know, girls' stuff."

She hurries off before Brennan can stop her, gifting him with a look that clearly says _If you screw this up, I will hurt you_ as she breezes by. Leaving him alone with Bones.

Who is looking anywhere but at him.

Not long ago, he would have laughed at the idea of needing an invitation into her space. The realization that he needs one now is like a physical blow.

"Can I come in?"

She nods curtly, but not before crossing her arms in an unmistakably defensive posture. He's never felt the distance between them as keenly as he does in this moment.

"Look, Bones, I'm here to apologize. The way I… acted with you yesterday was inexcusable."

She does look at him now—measuring and judging and dissecting the balance of his words.

"I've been stressed and I flew off the handle. I'm not justifying what I said. I don't know what got into me." He'll stick with that for now, focus on what he said instead of what he almost _did_. She can bring it up if she wants. He refuses to be the one to open that can of worms.

Brennan seems to be considering his words when she suddenly frowns. That small crinkle between her furrowed brows is endearingly familiar. "It's not like you to be purposely hurtful, Booth. You haven't been conversing with cartoon characters again, have you?"

"What?" He almost laughs at the absurdity of the question, because what could that possibly have… Oh. _Oh_. Of course she would worry about him, about his well-being. If she ever needed proof about what kind of heart she has, it's all right there in the space of two sentences. "No, no. It's nothing like that."

"Are you sure? Because if you need to see a neurologist—"

"I'm sure, okay? I'm not sick, Bones. Just a jerk."

Her eyes rake over him probingly. He wonders what she sees when she looks at him now, after he's spent all these months making it pretty damn clear that he isn't the same man who could sustain his life on infinite patience and unshakeable faith.

Even if fortune really does smile on the brave, he no longer believes in it.

But something in the perusal must satisfy her, because she nods slowly. "I would have to agree with that assessment."

He chuckles nervously. "Okay, great. Now that we've agreed on the flaw in my character… I'd like to extend a peace offering."

"In Southeast Asia, a traditional peace offering is betel, the leaf of a vine belonging to the _Piperaceae_ family. It is often combined with the areca nut and mineral slaked lime to form a chewed substance that promotes blood-red salivation."

He's really hoping that wasn't a suggestion. "That's… yeah. Pretty gross, actually. I was thinking more along the lines of dinner."

"Dinner?" She looks at him as if he had just invited her on a trip to the moon.

"Yeah, you know. You, me, duking it out for the mee krob? What do ya say?"

"Won't Olivia object?"

It strikes him that she may be trying to avoid the prospect of being alone with him again. Because how can anyone who knows Liv think she would ever stand in the way of something he wants?

"No. Why would she?"

"I would imagine because it would involve her sharing your time together with another woman. I don't see how any alpha-female engaged in a romantic relationship with you would be pleased."

He is momentarily struck speechless. How can she be so clueless when it counts and so right- on when he needs her _not_ to be?

"I thought you didn't believe in the proprietary nature of relationships."

"I don't. I was merely pointing out that—"

"Okay, okay." He doesn't know anymore if this is a losing battle, but he's not giving up that easily. "If you feel that strongly about it, we'll pick a time when Liv is working. Okay?"

"I don't know, Booth." She doesn't look at all convinced, but at least she seems to be considering it.

He moves in for the kill. "C'mon, Bones. You would deny your favorite partner the pleasure of your company? That's just cruel."

Her face softens into the lines of a stifled smile that he hasn't seen in far too long. "I feel it necessary to point out that you are, in fact, my _only_ partner."

"Damn straight." He flashes a charm-smile to seal the deal. "That's even more reason to agree then, right?"

The smile she can no longer keep at bay lights up her face, and she shakes her head ruefully. "I'd forgotten how very insistent you can be."

Booth rubs his hands together in excitement. "Didn't even break a sweat on that one. So, how's tomorrow night sound?"

Her face falls. Whether it's regret or guilt, he can't be sure, but when she speaks, he knows she's leaving something out. "That won't be possible."

"Can't wait to get an early weekend start in the bone room?"

"No, actually… I'm taking a trip. There's a book launch in New York, and my attendance has been requested. Well, mandated, in fact. My publicist says I've been out of the public eye for too long, although I can't imagine what that has to do with selling novels."

Booth can't figure out where to even start with that one. A year and a half ago, he would have been going to that launch _with _her. Now, he hadn't even known she finished a new book. New York City, on the other hand, rings quite a few bells.

No way is he going to rock the boat though; not after what it just took to convince her to spend even a little time with him.

"But I should be back on Sunday," she adds. "Perhaps we could postpone until then?"

"Sure, uh, raincheck 'til Sunday sounds fine." His smile is a little forced, and he hastens to chase it with something less bitter. "Enjoy your party, Bones. You deserve it."

* * *

Walking out of her office, he can't name the worrisome emotion welling up and prodding at the edges of his psyche like a dam threatening to burst.

On the one hand, she actually has a legitimate reason for the trip. On the other… well, she's never exactly made it a priority to attend these things before. If he remembers correctly, words like _inane_ and _tiresome_ have been thrown around quite a bit in the past, in association with _publicist_ and _event_. There's also the half-conversation with Angela he's trying not to think about. The one that confirms she's keeping something from him. Which, and if he were still a betting man he'd be putting money on this, most likely has everything to do with a certain photographer.

Who she's going to see in New York.

She actually hadn't said anything suspicious. But even if he hadn't heard Angela or seen Grant Moore's note, he would have known she wasn't being honest. Despite everything, there are still ways in which he can read her just as well as she can read bones.

There's definitely something wrong with the world when Bones flat out lies to him.

* * *

It only takes about an hour of uselessly staring at case files for Booth to give in to temptation. This isn't new; he's done it in the past for reasons he was sure, at the time, were completely noble.

In the here and now, he clings to denial as if it were a lifeline, giving himself every reason but the one he can't face.

The life of Grant Moore stares back at him from the computer screen.

_While he was still in high school, the New York born thirty-seven-year-old moved with his mother to Berkeley, California, where he attended photography workshops at the University of California, Berkeley, and various other institutions. Just a month shy of his eighteenth birthday, he was hired by ____Rolling Stone__ magazine to work in its darkroom. He began to take his own photos, including a shot of a young musician named Kurt Cobain. That photo would later hang in a collection at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Moore then moved to L.A. He took acting classes, shot stills for movies, and dated supermodels. Then he sold his car, packed his bags, and left the U.S. to hitchhike around the world. A year later, he returned to his native city and began a journalism degree at Columbia University. His work at _National Geographic_ began with an assignment that took him more than twenty-thousand feet up into the Peruvian Andes to photograph the discovery of a five-hundred-year-old Inca mummy. Since then, Moore has built a career of covering conservation in the roadless jungles of Suriname, rain forest research in Costa Rica, and cave exploration in Borneo, Mexico, Belize, New Guinea, Canada, and the United States. He works on what he calls "the raw edges of the frontier", following the need to go to the few places that haven't been touched by modern civilization. _

All of that, just from the Internet. So, yeah.

Booth reminds himself that he has a gun and a badge. He's served his country loyally in several wars. He solves the most heinous crimes, arrests people on a regular basis, and has a near- perfect solve rate. His kid thinks he's a superhero.

There is absolutely no need to feel intimidated by an adrenaline junkie with a camera.

He digs a little deeper, checking the FBI files. Because Bones… well, she has a tendency to pick some real winners.

Grant Moore has never been married.

He's intelligent. Attractive. Independently wealthy.

No reason for professional jealousy.

No recruiting for cults of any kind.

No history of fratricide. That he can tell.

Worse yet, no evident plans to sail away into the Caribbean anytime soon.

Not even so much as a damn parking ticket.

And his picture…

It's like he stepped off the pages of a goddamn magazine.

If he was looking for a reason why Bones _shouldn't _run off with this guy, he's struck out bigtime.

But that isn't what he was doing. Is it?

There's no denying the disappointment he feels. The sense of finality when he sees this man's face and thinks about the words scribbled on a freaking Post-It note. He realizes what he'd never even considered before: how unbelievably hard it is letting go of something you didn't know you were still hoping for.

Booth rests his head against his desk wearily. Olivia smiles back at him from within a frame and, shamed, he turns away.

Cam's right. He's screwing it all up.

It's starting to feel like he's being unfaithful.

The problem is, he doesn't know which one of them he thinks of as the other woman.

* * *

**AN2: **Much of the "Grant Moore" biography was appropriated from real-life photographer Stephen Alvarez (at the National Geographic website)


	7. I've Said Too Much

**AN: Yay, got it in just under the wire :) Believe it or not, the pivotal scene of this chapter was written long before we heard anything at all about the Brennan-centric episode. It is purely coincidence that this particular point in the story correlates with this particular point in Season 6.**

* * *

The days trickle by at an excruciatingly slow pace. Parker is stuck at Rebecca's with the flu, and Olivia has taken to working nights so as to stack some vacation time at the end of the month. The loneliness he feels without her is tempered by relief that at least she's not around to see how much the situation with Brennan is messing with his head.

There's guilt, too. He owes her more than this kind of uncertainty.

He knows he needs to get his shit together. The thing is though, nothing is really gonna feel settled until he faces Bones and lays their past to rest, once and for all.

He decides that being supportive is a place to start. He's always been acutely aware of how much she deserves; of how much less than that the world has given her. And if she's content now, if she finally found in someone what Booth had told her for years was just within reach, then…

Yeah, that burns.

But what matters is that she's happy, even if the guy isn't good enough for her. He can't be. No one ever could. That's none of his business now, though. Maybe it never was.

What he wants, what he really wants, is a fraction of the trust that was once inherent between them. No more secrets. No more furtive glances or uncertain hedging. Everything out in the open, so that they can both move on to a better place.

Whether she's in love with this guy, or simply screwing around, he wishes she would just tell him. He wishes he could just _know._

_

* * *

_

By Sunday, he's got himself under some semblance of control. He and Bones need to have a conversation, that much is certain. How to go about doing that… that's the part he's kind of fuzzy on. But he refuses to believe that it's impossible to bridge that awkward gap between them. What they have goes far too deep, is too much a part of both of them, to let the changes in their lives erase the last six years.

The problem with his plan is that they've never been very good at talking. In code, yes—running circles around what they really meant, what they really wanted, always so careful, never committing any game-changing truths to irrevocable words until the fateful night he _did_.

Even then, he hadn't said any of the things that really mattered.

But where silent communication was always their forte, excluding all intruders from their world of two, there is now only silence_._ Silence laden with misunderstanding and volatility and the painful absence of a connection he has never felt with anyone else.

He wonders if, once extinguished, a spark like that can ever re-ignite again.

* * *

That morning, Booth calls to make sure they're still on for dinner, and she confirms. Her laughter at something on her end of the line before she hangs up echoes in his ears like a half remembered sacrament.

He changes his shirt three times before leaving the apartment.

By the time he knocks on her door, awkwardly juggling two bags of takeout and a six-pack, the lump of lead weighing on him all day has settled deep in his gut.

He feels, irrationally, as if their whole future is riding on what happens tonight. On whether or not they can come to an understanding.

In the space of her approaching footsteps, he assures himself that they can do this. They can be friends; good, close friends who respect and value each other, who are open and honest, just like him and Cam…

… except Cam, even if she were to waltz around in front of him naked, would elicit nothing more than a healthy, male response.

Not strike with the deadly precision of a thunderbolt, the current conducted through his very core. He almost stumbles back a step with the sheer impact.

The sight of her—hair still damp and slightly curling, robe cinched tight around her tall frame—evokes such a desperate longing that he can barely stand to look.

Yet he can't turn away, either.

She looks young and tired and achingly beautiful; the ghost of a life that had been nothing but a dream.

Maybe putting distance between them wasn't such a bad idea after all.

But she's already opened the door further in invitation, relieving him of the six-pack as he wanders inside.

"My flight was delayed, and I wasn't expecting you for another half-hour, so…" Her downcast eyes suggest an uncharacteristic self-awareness at her state of semi-dress.

"T's okay. Look, I brought some of that crap organic beer you like."

Brennan sets down the case and pulls her robe tighter. "Mongozo is not _crap_. It has been a cultural rite of the Chokwe people for over two centuries."

"Well, it sure tastes like it's been sitting around for at least that long."

He hopes the return to basics will put them both more at ease, and his partner exhales on a nervous laugh. "I could explain the inherent superiority of the tribe's distilling methods, but I believe that my time will be used more wisely by changing into something more appropriate." Setting off towards the bedroom, she adds, "Don't worry, there' s some of your Lager in the refrigerator."

Booth tries not to stare after her retreating form. He hasn't been here in months. In over a year, if you wanna get picky about it, for anything more than to pick her up or to drop off some paperwork. Considering that he finds the bottles way in the back of the fridge, along with a lack of much to indicate that she even eats here, it's probably safe to say that she didn't go shopping for tonight.

The fact that she still keeps his beer here leaves him awash in a strange, awed calm. Funny, that something so simple could bring it all home for him.

Bones may think he's the expert at interpersonal relationships. But she's been showing him what it means to be a true friend for a long time.

* * *

He's set the table and is pulling food out of boxes when she emerges, dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans and a blue button-up top that brings out the striking hue of her eyes. Brennan wordlessly begins loading the plates. They move around one another with a practiced ease that belies the constraints of their current relationship.

It's too intimate, somehow.

Booth clears his throat. "So, how did it go in the Big Apple? Not too bad, as far as fancy shindigs go?"

"Honestly, the whole affair was fairly exhausting. I've never understood how the choice of hors d'oeurves correlates to the public's interest level for something I've written."

"That's why you're you, Bones." He smiles warmly. "You might be a PR nightmare, but it's only because you see what's important. Without all the bells and whistles."

She smiles too, an unguarded joy briefly lighting her face. Then she lowers herself into a chair, leaving the food untouched. Her demeanor takes on that contemplative solemnity he's come to both dread and anticipate.

"I've been considering something you said."

"That's a first."

"Booth. I'm serious." She still says his name with that unique affectation; tenderness and admonishment wrapped up in a few extra syllables. His heart feels heavy with the sound. "In my office, when we argued. You said that all you wanted was the truth. That you need it, the way I need tangible evidence."

He nods, not trusting his voice. There are many sins he carries; hypocrisy has never been one of them until now.

"Can I extrapolate this line of thinking to infer that if there were some aspect of my life that could potentially affect you, and our relationship, you would want to know? Despite any possible consequences?"

He's not convinced anymore. The _consequences_ may be more than the delicate balance they're walking can take. But he's backed himself into a corner with that little outburst, and now she's taken his words to heart.

For the briefest instant, she hesitates. Like she's thinking the same thing he is. But she faces him with a naked vulnerability that she rarely allows herself, and how the hell is he supposed to tell her to _shut it down_?

"Things have changed between us, and I believe… I believe that I am making it worse by keeping something from you."

Booth puts down his fork and pushes away from the table. As much as he wanted to know about this, he's not sure he can stomach hearing it from her. "I know what you're going to tell me, Bones."

That momentarily derails her train of thought. "How can you possibly know something like that?"

"FBI, remember? Federal Bureau of _Investigation_. I did some investigating."

"I don't… follow your reasoning."

"I saw the note, Bones."

To his dismay, it comes out more defensive than apologetic. But she looks genuinely confused. "What note?"

"The Post-It, on your desk. The one signed _G.M._" He sighs. "I get it, okay? And I hope you're happy. I mean that."

Brennan's expression shifts from surprise, to guilt, to annoyance. "You went snooping through my things and concluded that I am involved in a romantic relationship."

"I wasn't _snooping_—"

She shakes her head, something dark and defiant flashing in her eyes. "This is why I hate unfounded supposition. You had no evidence on which to base your assumptions."

"It looked pretty founded to me."

"And you truly believed I would keep something like that from you?"

The prepared retort dies on his lips. Her face is a study in controlled emotion, but whether it's anger or distress or even fear lurking beneath the surface, he just can't say. "Are you seriously telling me nothing happened?"

"That would not be an accurate statement, no."

"Then why are you fighting it so hard? You found someone, end of story. You don't owe me any explanations."

"But you are laboring under a misconceived notion. One that, for whatever reason, is bothersome to you. Therefore, I believe it necessary to set the record upright."

"Straight, Bones. Set the record straight."

There is a beat of silence between them. Something in her seems to crack under the weight of it; a chink in the armor he hasn't bothered to breach in so long.

"I think it's important, Booth. Please."

It's that_ please_ he can't stand. How hearing it still twists him up inside, still renders him incapable of denying her anything.

He sighs in resignation. After all, wasn't this what he thought would help steer their friendship back on track? "Okay. Say what you gotta say, alright?"

"I… I suppose you are aware that Grant and I became acquainted in Indonesia. His assignment was not specific to our excavation, but on the occasions that our paths crossed we discovered many similar interests. I had forgotten how grueling a dig like that could be. While it was a change that was necessary to my mental well-being, I began to feel… isolated. Restless in a way I can't explain. I would often explore when it became too late to work, and eventually Grant began to join me. We became friends. I found his company comforting, but there was never anything more. Not then."

He stays silent, not really knowing where she's heading with this but dreading it all the same. That telltale knot in his gut has never been wrong. Brennan draws a deep breath as if steeling herself. He's never seen her be this hesitant, yet he's riveted by the way she forges ahead despite her discomfort.

"Perhaps… the time away compromised my ability to rationalize. I admit that I allowed myself certain expectations, maybe even hopes, for our respective returns that seem childish in retrospect. As a result, I have found it… difficult… to adapt to the current parameters of our relationship. I've been alone most of my life, and have always preferred the solitude. But I don't believe I've ever understood loneliness in quite the way I have experienced it these last few months. I continued to feel isolated, and restless, even in the company of those closest to me. In our time together, Grant expressed a sexual attraction. More than that, really. I had thought to use my trip to New York as an opportunity to broach the possibilities he suggested. But, it didn't work out."

The blood pounding in his ears is almost loud enough to obscure her careful words. She's been withdrawn, yes, but he never questioned why. Too wrapped up in his own life, he hadn't bothered with hers.

There's a prickle in his spine; a horrible kind of certainty that leaves his instincts screaming in warning, but not quickly enough…

"I felt affection for him, Booth, I truly did. However, I found that embarking on something even in a fairly casual capacity carried with it the distinct sensation of being... unfaithful. Which is utterly ridiculous, as you and I are clearly not—"

"No, no, no, _no, _Bones!" He is out of his seat like a shot, thundering toward her. "You don't get to do this. You can't shoot me down and then say stuff like that."

"I'm only being truthful. I thought that—"

"There's truthful and there's timely, Bones. And you're about eighteen months too late."

He's never felt crueler than he does right now; never reminded himself so much of his old man. But the spell she was weaving has lost its hold, replaced by righteous anger at the ease with which she can still tie him up into knots.

Brennan gasps at the harshness in his voice, but stands her ground. "I didn't tell you this to upset you, Booth. And I'm not attempting to restore your feelings for me, if that were even possible. I... made a mistake. It was never my intention to hurt you, but I did, and you'll never know how sorry I am for that." Her gaze falls from his, voice quivering. Tears, the wet, bitter kernels of her truth, weave their way down her cheeks. "I know that you've moved on. And I'm glad. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy."

What he's hearing can't possibly be what she's saying because she told him _I can't_, crushed his heart with it, changed their lives with it, and if… then she _can_ and she _does_ and she _did_, even then, and—

"Jesus, Bones."

It's like a suckerpunch right to the gut, and it levels him. He can't catch his breath, wondering uselessly how it's possible that she can still wreck him, even when she doesn't mean to.

Even when he's moved on.

He walks to the couch on leaden legs and sinks onto it wearily, dropping his head into his hands. His fingertips press tight against the temples, as if to contain the clamoring inside. A sudden wave of nausea nearly makes him gag.

The apartment is thrust into a vacuum of ghostly silence. Booth can feel her hovering, wraithlike—the specter he can never outrun. She finally takes a seat next to him. Her hand lingers just over his arm, close enough to make the hairs stand on end, but the indecision that keeps her from making contact is palpable.

He is grateful. The thread by which his control hangs could never withstand her touch.

"Are you okay, Booth?"

Her earnestness is salt on an already festering wound, and he laughs bitterly. "No, Bones. I'm not even close to okay."

"I shouldn't have said anything."

The self-reproach in her voice makes him look up sharply. Her eyes are bright with the sheen of more unshed tears, and filled with such remorse that he forcibly softens his demeanor.

"Why did you?"

"I… explained my reasoning. You made a point about needing to know your place in my life. I thought you deserved to have that."

"You picked a hell of a time to listen to what I need." He swallows past the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for."

"I knew that I would do something wrong, that I would hurt you. This…" She motions between them. "This just isn't a skill that I possess. Do you understand now why I could not agree to pursue a romantic relationship with you?"

This whole situation has got to be some sort of karmic justice. Looking at her is like wading through the rubble of his life, and he can't stand being trapped in the ruins.

Never before has he understood her desire to run so perfectly.

"Bones, I can't… I can't do this with you."

His voice is brittle; the sound of something being twisted and bent until it can bend no more.

_He _can bend no more.

There's no malice in it. He's just not sure if he'll survive rehashing this a second time.

Brennan nods disconsolately, not bothering to wipe at the steady stream now trailing down her cheeks. "I know."

He wants to reach out, to wipe at her face and soothe her pain and tell her that everything will be okay. But he can't. Through the anger, through the confusion and the despair, he knows that he cares too much to lie to her. The only thing he can do is pull himself together enough to carry on.

He's got his hand on the doorknob when she calls out to him, panicked.

"Booth!"

He doesn't face her, merely turns enough that she can see his profile. "Yeah."

"Rebecca once told me… she once said that she believes there is a single moment for two people. I understand that we missed ours, but please, I need you to tell me that we can still work together. That I haven't… that I haven't made the mistake of risking our partnership a second time."

She sounds frantic, desperate. And just like he couldn't give life to her biggest fear last year when it nearly killed him, he can't do it now. Certainly not when she made a liar out of herself and _did_ change.

The fucking irony is caustic enough to burn a hole through his heart.

But this is something he can give her, even if he can no longer give her himself.

"We can still be partners, Bones. I just need some time, okay? I need to try and wrap my head around all this."

He walks out before they can hurt each other further. But his legs are unsteady, and the world has spun completely off its axis, and he leans against the outside of the heavy oak door to catch his bearings. It is only a minute later, when he should have been well out of earshot, that he hears her quiet, broken sobs.


End file.
